ON  THE 
OVERLAN 


STAGE 


EDWIN-I/SABI 


<:  1 1 3  .C 


/? 


Frontis. 
'IS   THAT   YOU,    BILL?     WHAT'S    THE    MATTER?     WHERE   YOU    GOING?" 


ON  THE 
OVERLAND   STAGE 

OR 

TERRY  AS  A  KING  WHIP  CUB 


BY 

EDWIN  L.  SABIN 

Author  of  "BAR  B  BOYS,"  "THE  BOY  SETTLER/ 
"THE  GREAT  PIKE'S  PEAK  RUSH,"  ETC. 


Statesmen  and  warriors,  traders  and  the  rest, 
May  boast  of  their  profession,  and  think  it  is  the  best; 
Their  state  I'll  never  envy,  I'll  have  you  understand, 
Long  as  I  can  be  a  driver  on  the  jolly  "Overland." 

"Song  of  the  Overland  Stage-Driver"  (1865) 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 

BY  T'SQMAS  Y.-c&T^iL  COMPANY 


ALONG  THE  LINE 

ON  THE  OLD  WAY-BILL 

TERRY   RICHARDS    Who   Aspires   to  be   a   King   Whip 

GEORGE   STANTON    Another  Overland  "Cub" 

VIRGIE    STANTON    A  Little  Heroine  of  the  Plains 

MR.  AND  MRS.  RICHARDS    )  r^,         0  A  T, 

_  f  Their    Sometimes    Anxious    Parents 

MR.  AND  MRS.  STANTON    J 

HARRY  REVERE  A  Model  Station  Keeper 

SOL  JUDY Who  Also  Rides  the  Plains 

PINE  KNOT  IKE The  Last  of  a  Bad  Egg 

LEFT  HAND A  Marrying  Arapaho 

SHEP A  Dog  Veteran 

DUKE,  THE  HALF-BUFFALO.. Who  Becomes  Injun  Meat 
JENNY,  THE  YELLOW  MULE.. Captive  to  the  Cheyennes 

ON  THE  NEW  WAY-BILL 

"BEN"  HOLLADAY   The  Great  Stage  Owner 

"MISTER"    GEORGE   OTIS  ....  General   Superintendent 

"WILD    BILL"   HICKOK Who  Shoots  Hard 

BILLY  CODY    Of  the  Pony  Express 

JACK  SLADE   The  Overland  Terror 

SAM   CLEMENS    )  F          Men  Passengers 

ARTEMUS  WARD   ) 

RANCHER  HOLLEN  GODFREY. Brave  Captain  of  "Fort  Wicked" 

Si  PERKINS    His  Helper 

FRIDAY   An  Educated  Indian 

THE  SCAR-FACE   Who  Gets  His  Deserts 

BILL  TROTTER,  "Teddy"  Nichols,  "Tommy"  Ryan,  Bob 
Hodge,  and  other  "king  whips"  of  the  Overland ;  mes- 
sengers, agents,  soldiers,  ranchers,  "hostiles,"  and  so 
forth. 

TIME  AND  PLACE:  The  Overland  Stage  route  from  the 
Missouri  to  Salt  Lake;  1861-1865. 


M61172 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  "ALL  'BOARD" :.  -.  i 

II.  ON   THE   BOX   OF   THE   OVERLAND      .  13 

III.  A  LIVELY  TIME  AT  JULESBURG    .     .  26 

IV.  TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY     ....  37 
V.  "WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT     ...  52 

VI.  A  BREAK-UP  ALL  'ROUND     ...  64 

VII.  SEEKING  THEIR  FORTUNE  AGAIN     .  75 

VIII.  TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     ...  83 

IX.  A  RACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY     ...  96 

X.  BEAVER  CREEK  HOME  STATION    .     .  107 

XL  A  JOKE  ON  THE  SCAR- FACE     .     .     .  115 

XII.  THE  STAGE  KING  COMES  THROUGH  125 

XIII.  CANNONEERS  TO  THE  RESCUE!     .     .  135 

XIV.  A  CHAPTER  OF  SURPRISES     .     .     .  145 
XV.  TERRY  Is  A  KING  WHIP     ....  157 

XVI.  HANK  CONNOR  DOES  His  BEST     .  165 

XVII.  A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE     .  177 

XVIII.  TROUBLE  ON  BRIDGER'S  PASS     .     .  189 

XIX.  ALONE  ON  THE  DANGER  TRAIL  200 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.     ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL    .  208 

XXI.     FAST  TIME  TO  HARRY 220 

XXII.     BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED     .     .  229 

XXIII.  GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION     .  240 

XXIV.  A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS     ....  250 
XXV.     THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     .  262 

XXVI.     HARRY  RESCUES  A  FRIEND    .     .     .  277 

XXVII.     A  BIGGER  JOB  AHEAD 289 


ON  THE 
OVERLAND  STAGE 


CHAPTER  I 
"ALL  'BOARD" 

IT  was  late  afternoon  of  the  middle  of  April,  1861. 
In  famous  Gregory  Gulch  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
forty-five  miles  west  from  Denver  City,  new  Colorado 
Territory,  the  Virginia  Consolidated  gold  mining  com- 
pany was  just  beginning  another  year's  work. 

Present:  young  Terry  Richards  and  his  father; 
young  George  Stanton  and  his  father;  and  Virgie 
Stanton,  girl,  who  was  George's  little  sister.  Also, 
Shep,  shaggy  black  dog;  Jenny,  the  yellow  mule;  and 
Duke,  half  cow,  half  buffalo,  captured  by  Terry  two 
years  before  in  a  buffalo  hunt  with  the  Delaware  In- 
dians back  in  Kansas. 

This  was  not  the  whole  Virginia  Consolidated  fam- 
ily. Terry's  mother  and  George's  mother  were  still 
down  in  Denver;  Harry  Revere,  the  plucky,  slender 
school-teacher,  who,  with  Terry,  had  driven  Duke 
and  Jenny  across-country  from  the  Richards  ranch  in 
Kansas  to  the  "Pike's  Peak  country"  two  years  ago, 

I 


2  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

was  riding  special  "pony  express"  between  Denver  and 
the  main  Overland  Stage  line,  so  as  to  bring  the  war 
news  quickly,  and  Sol  Judy,  the  plainsman  and  Califor- 
nia Fortyniner,  was  driving  the  Denver  stage  on  the 
same  route. 

Harry  and  Sol  likely  would  come  in,  a  little  later; 
and  so  would  the  two  mothers,  when  the  snows  had 
quit/ if.- :  '  f 

.,  [".'Bout  time,  for  the  stage,  isn't  it?"  remarked  Ter- 
ry's 'f4th£r.;,  'straightening  up  from  cleaning  out  a  ditch, 
to  peer  down  the  road  for  the  first  sign  of  the  stage 
that  ran  between  Denver  and  Central  City  of  the 
Gulch.  "I'm  powerful  anxious  to  get  the  news." 

"Let's  hope  it  won't  be  war,"  said  Mr.  Stanton. 

"Well,"  sighed  Terry's  father,  "things  look  bad. 
The  President's  speech  showed  that  he  wouldn't  back 
down." 

"I  know  it,"  admitted  George's  father. 

Both  men  sobered.  So  did  Terry  and  George.  Yes, 
things  indeed  looked  bad  out  East,  in  the  "States." 
Last  fall  Abraham  Lincoln  had  been  elected  President 
of  the  United  States — which  was  not  bad,  but  good; 
and  the  Southern  States  that  favored  the  keeping  of 
slaves  by  anybody  who  wished  to  do  so  threatened  to 
withdraw  from  the  Union. 

The  great  news  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  election  was 
carried  by  the  Pony  Express,  from  the  Missouri  River 
to  California,  2,000  miles,  in  eight  days! 

Then  South  Carolina  did  withdraw.  Then  Presi- 
dent Buchanan,  before  he  retired,  declined  to  recog- 


"ALL  'BOARD"  3 

nize  the  right  of  any  state  to  secede.  This  message 
also  was  carried  across  continent  in  eight  days. 

Then  the  Southern  members  of  the  President's  cab- 
inet resigned.  Then  other  Southern  States  seceded. 
Then  President  Lincoln,  in  his  inauguration  speech  on 
March  4,  said  that  if  States  were  permitted  to  with- 
draw whenever  they  desired,  there  could  be  no  Na- 
tional government.  He  had  no  legal  right  yet  to 
abolish  slavery  in  the  South,  and  the  Southern  States 
were  protected  by  the  Constitution ;  but  they  could  not 
secede. 

This  important  speech  was  carried  across  the  plains 
and  mountains  and  deserts  in  seven  days  and  seven- 
teen hours ! 

Now  seven  Southern  States  were  out — had  formed 
the  Confederate  States  of  America,  and  were  claiming 
all  the  ports  and  forts  within  their  boundaries,  and  all 
the  United  States  supplies  there.  The  whole  Far 
West  country  was  breathlessly  awaiting  further  news. 

For  this  it  depended  upon  the  Central  Overland 
California  &  Pike's  Peak  stage  line,  and  especially  upon 
the  Pony  Express. 

The  Pony  Express  was  a  wonderful  service.  It  had 
been  started  a  year  ago  by  Messrs.  Russell,  Majors  and 
Waddell,  operators  of  the  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  stage  line 
from  St.  Joseph,  Missouri,  to  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah. 
There  had  been  eighty  relay  riders,  and  500  extra- fast 
horses,  stationed  at  intervals  clear  across  from  the 
Missouri  River  at  St.  Joseph  to  Sacramento  of  Cal- 
ifornia. Forty  riders  were  constantly  chasing  one  way, 
and  forty  the  other  way.  Day  or  night,  they  were 


4  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

obliged  to  cover  ten  miles  every  hour,  but  the  record 
stood  at  ten  miles  in  thirty-one  minutes! 

Some  of  the  riders  rode  120  miles  at  a  stretch;  they 
changed  to  a  fresh  horse  about  every  ten  miles;  they 
far  beat  the  stages,  which  averaged  five  miles  an  hour, 
by  plains  and  mountains,  and  had  a  ten-day  schedule 
to  Salt  Lake,  1,200  miles.  The  Pony  Express  got 
there  in  five  days ! 

The  Express  did  not  pass  through  Denver.  It  fol- 
lowed the  Russell,  Majors  and  Waddell  "Overland" 
stage  line,  which  veered  for  the  north  at  Julesburg  on 
the  South  Platte  River  200  miles  northeast  of  Denver. 
But  from  Julesburg  a  stage  was  run  three  times  a  week 
to  Denver,  and  in  these  exciting  times  the  Rockyl 
Mountain  News  had  put  on  a  special  express  rider,  to 
meet  the  incoming  mail  and  dispatches  at  Bijou  sta- 
tion, 100  miles  out,  and  gallop  back  with  them,  thus 
saving  about  twelve  hours'  time. 

Harry  Revere  was  that  rider.  He  weighed  only 
140  pounds  (which  was  the  limit  for  a  Pony  Express 
man),  and  he  certainly  could  ride.  He  changed  horses 
every  ten  or  fifteen  miles,  at  the  stations  and  ranches. 
Terry  and  George  envied  him  that  job,  but  they  had 
to  go  to  school  all  winter. 

The  News  had  a  branch  office  at  Central  City,  here 
in  the  Gregory  Gulch  "diggin's."  The  branch  office 
posted  bulletins  of  "extras"  as  soon  as  word  was  re- 
ceived by  the  local  stage  from  Denver.  It  was  high 
time  that  the  stage  arrived,  too. 

"I  see  it!"  suddenly  cried  Virgie.  "And  it's  in  an 
awful  hurry." 


"ALL  'BOARD"  5 

Everybody  looked. 

"That's  not  the  stage.  That's  only  a  man  horse- 
back," corrected  George.  "Can't  you  tell  a  man  horse- 
back from  a  stage-coach?" 

"By  ginger,  he's  in  a  hurry,  whoever  he  is!"  ex- 
claimed George's  father.  "He  must  have  something 
important  to  say." 

And  that  was  true.  Here  in  the  mountains  they  did 
not  know,  yet;  but  for  three  nights  and  days  other 
horsemen  had  been  galloping,  galloping,  headlong  upon 
the  Pony  Express  route  across  the  Great  Plains,  bear- 
ing onward  the  alarm  clicked  off  by  the  telegraph  at 
St.  Joseph  on  the  Missouri  River. 

In  another  night  and  day  it  would  reach  the  top  of 
the  continent  in  Wyoming,  far  north;  in  another  it 
would  be  thrilling  Salt  Lake  City,  in  Utah  west  of 
the  mountains;  in  two  more  it  would  be  put  on  the 
telegraph  at  the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains  of  Western 
Nevada  and  dispatched  across  to  Sacramento  of  Cali- 
fornia and  down  to  San  Francisco. 

The  rider  hastening  up  the  gulch  road  was  riding 
furiously.  He  scarcely  rose  and  fell  in  his  saddle,  so 
tightly  he  clung;  but,  bent  forward,  he  lifted  his  horse, 
with  spur  and  rein,  at  every  stride.  He  had  turned 
into  the  main  gulch,  at  the  mouth,  below. the  Virginia 
Consolidated;  the  town  of  Black  Hawk  there  seemed 
to  be  cheering  him;  miners  all  along  the  stage  road 
were  dropping  their  tools  and  quitting  work  to  watch 
him ;  teams  were  pulling  aside  for  him ;  in  a  few  min- 
utes he  would  pass  the  Virginia. 

"That's  Harry!     That's  Harry  Revere!"  shouted 


6  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Terry.    "He's  riding  express  for  Central !    Hooray !" 

"Not  'Hooray'!"  gravely  rebuked  his  father.     "It 

means  war.    The  way  he  rides,  he's  bringing  news  of 


war." 


And  Harry  Revere  it  was.  The  gulch  was  quite 
narrow,  the  stage  road  up  along  the  creek  below  their 
own  little  ravine  was  near.  They  might  see  Harry 
plainly.  His  hat  brim  flared  back,  he  was  digging  in 
his  heels,  his  horse  was  splattered  with  lather,  and 
tired.  By  he  swept,  with  only  wave  of  arm  at  them ; 
and  the  rapid  drum  of  his  hoof-beats  echoed  behind 
him  as  he  tore  on  for  the  News  office  at  Central. 

"We'd  better  go  up  there,  Ralph."  And  George's 
father  dropped  his  pick. 

"Yes,  we  had."  And  Terry's  father  dropped  his 
spade. 

"Come  on,  Terry."  And  George  and  Terry  and 
Virgie  followed,  Shep  soberly  at  their  heels. 

Central  City  mining-camp  was  about  two  miles  up 
the  gulch.  Harry's  hard  riding  evidently  had  aroused 
general  curiosity,  for  already  streams  of  people,  afoot 
and  ahorse,  were  hurrying  to  learn  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. There  were  all  kinds  of  rumors. 

"Denver's  been  burnt!" 

"The  Injuns  are  out !" 

"Washington's  captured !" 

"The  President's  been  assassinated !" 

"The  South  has  given  in!" 

A  man  horseback  from  Black  Hawk  pushed  through, 
by  the  trail. 

"War's  begun!    The  South  has  commenced  firing! 


"ALL  'BOARD"  7 

War's  begun!"  he  proclaimed,  right  and  left,  as  he 
charged  on. 

"How  d'you  know?" 

"Express  from  Denver.  Didn't  you  see  him?  He 
said  so." 

Cheers  arose :  cheers  for  the  North,  cheers  for  the 
South.  The  gulch  was  peopled  with  men  from  both 
sections.  The  procession  hastened  more  earnestly. 

"Ha !  That  means  a  call  by  the  President  for  troops. 
And  I  shall  go,"  uttered  Terry's  father. 

"Yes?  So  shall  I,  of  course,"  answered  George's 
father. 

"Can  I  go,  Dad?"  demanded  George  eagerly.  His 
black  eyes  snapped.  He  was  a  wiry,  pugnacious  chap, 
was  George  Stanton.  "We'll  go,  won't  we,  Terry?" 

"If  they'll  take  us." 

"We  can  be  drummer-boys." 

Virgie  began  to  weep,  as  she  trudged  trying  to  keep 
up. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go.  I  don't  want  anybody  to 
go.  I  don't  like  war." 

"Aw,  what  you  bawling  for?"  scoffed  George. 
"That  won't  save  the  Union." 

Before  they  got  to  Central,  they  sighted  Harry  com- 
ing down  afoot.  He  was  being  stopped  every  few 
steps;  but  when  he  saw  them  he  shook  himself  free 
and  met  them.  He  looked  very  tired. 

"Hello,"  he  greeted  wanly. 

"Is  that  true?  Has  war  opened?  Is  there  fight- 
ing?" 

A  half   score   of   voices   volleyed  at  him,   almost 


8  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

drowning  the  queries  of  Terry's  and  George's  fathers. 

"Yes.  Fort  Sumter's  been  bombarded,"  panted 
Harry. 

"Where's  that?"  asked  somebody. 

"Off  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  Confederate  bat- 
teries began  to  bombard  it  early  Friday  morning  the 
twelfth.  It  had  to  surrender  the  next  afternoon.  You 
can  read  all  about  it  at  the  News  office  in  Central.  I'm 
tired  out,  gentlemen,"  and  Harry  threw  up  his  hands 
with  a  weak  smile.  "I've  ridden  lickity-split  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  since  morning,  with  only  a  half- 
hour  rest." 

"Bully  for  you,"  they  praised. 

"Seventy  hours,  St.  Joseph  to  Denver — that's  the 
record  for  this  message,"  continued  Harry,  as  he  and 
the  Virginia  Consolidated  squad  proceeded  down  to 
the  mine.  "Six  hundred  and  fifty  miles  in  seventy 
hours;  average  of  over  nine  miles  an  hour,  including 
changes.  I  took  the  message  off  the  stage  at  Bijou 
Junction,  and  rode  the  hundred  miles  down  in  six 
hours ;  had  half  an  hour  at  Denver  while  the  News  got 
out  an  extra;  Mr.  Byers  [he  was  editor  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  News]  wanted  the  special  rushed  into  the 
mountains,  so  I  brought  a  batch  through  in  three  hours 
for  the  forty-five  miles.  I  had  only  one  change  of 
horse  or  I  might  have  done  better.  I've  a  copy  of  the 
special  in  my  pocket  for  you." 

"Crickity !  I  call  that  some  riding,"  blurted  George 
admiringly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  laughed  Harry.  "Last  year 
Jim  Moore  on  the  regular  Pony  Express  made  the 


"ALL  'BOARD"  9 

round-trip  between  Midway  and  Julesburg,  of  two 
hundred  and  eighty  miles,  in  eighteen  and  a  quarter 
hours,  with  only  ten  minutes'  rest;  averaged  over 
eighteen  miles  an  hour.  There's  a  fifteen  or  sixteen- 
year-old  boy  named  Billy  Cody,  on  the  North  Platte 
route,  who  rode  three  hundred  and  twenty  miles,  with- 
out any  rest,  at  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  And  over  in 
Nevada  Bob  Haslam  has  ridden  three  hundred  and 
eighty  miles  at  a  stretch.  So  I'm  not  crowing.  But 
I  did  the  best  I  could." 

"Has  the  President  called  for  troops?"  asked  Mr. 
Richards. 

"Not  yet.  But,  of  course,  he  will — seventy-five  or 
a  hundred  thousand,  probably,  the  News  says." 

"I'm  going,  then.    I  want  to  be  among  the  first." 

Harry  was  as  tired  as  his  horse  had  been  (he  was 
handicapped  by  a  lame  foot,  since  a  time  when  he 
was  thrown  from  bareback,  while  a  boy  in  Virginia), 
but  they  all  sat  up  late  this  night,  in  the  mine  cabin, 
talking.  There  was  a  bonfire  and  excitement  at  Black 
Hawk,  below,  and  the  same  at  Central  City,  above ;  all 
the  "diggin's"  was  in  a  furor.  And  westward,  ever 
westward,  by  Pony  Express  across  the  mountains,  for 
Utah,  Nevada  and  California,  was  still  speeding  the 
word  that  Fort  Sumter  and  its  United  States  flag  had 
been  fired  upon,  and  that  the  Civil  War  had  actually 
begun. 

Terry's  father  decided  to  leave  for  Denver  by  the 
first  stage. 

"The  women  folks  will  be  nervous,"  he  declared. 
"And  I  ought  to  be  there,  ready  for  the  call." 


io  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Where  do  you  intend  to  enlist,  Ralph?"  inquired 
George's  father. 

"Back  in  Kansas,  among  my  old  friends.  I'll  'tend 
to  the  ranch  business,  while  I'm  there.  I  thought  I'd 
sold  the  ranch,  but  those  fellows  don't  seem  to  be  mak- 
ing their  payments,  and  I  may  have  to  take  it  again. 
Where  will  you  enlist?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Stanton  slowly.  "I'm 
as  anxious  as  you  are,  but  perhaps  I'd  better  stay  in 
Colorado,  and  wind  up  our  mine  affairs.  There'll  be 
Colorado  troops,  I  suppose." 

"Aw,  don't  we  do  our  mining?"  exclaimed  George. 

"No,  sir!  That  amounts  to  nothing,  now.  When 
the  Government  calls,  it's  every  citizen's  duty  to  drop 
his  business  if  he  can,  and  offer  himself." 

"Do  I  go  to  Kansas,  Dad?  Will  you  take  me?" 
voiced  Terry. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will,"  said  his  father.  "You  and 
your  mother  both.  You'll  be  safer  in  case  the  Indians 
break  out." 

"I'll  stay  with  my  dad  and  fight  Injuns!"  cried 
George. 

"There's  some  truth  in  that,"  agreed  his  father.  "If 
the  Indians  get  rambunctious  and  the  Southern  troops 
try  to  march  up  from  Texas,  Colorado'll  have  plenty 
of  work.  What  are  your  plans,  Harry?  You're  a 
Virginian,  I  believe." 

So  he  was ;  and  they  all  waited  intently  to  hear  his 
answer. 

"Well,"  mused  Harry,  "my  folks  are  Southerners; 
that's  sure;  and  I  was  raised  in  the  South.  I  don't 


"ALL  'BOARD"  n 

suppose  I  could  get  into  either  army,  with  my  lame 
foot.  The  war  may  not  last  long,  anyway.  The  North 
says  three  months.  I'd  hate  to  fight  against  my  own 
kin — and  I'd  hate  to  fight  against  the  Flag,  and  you 
fellows.  I  reckon,  as  long  as  I've  got  to  be  a  non- 
combatant,  I'll  keep  a-riding.  That'll  let  some  other 
man  carry  my  gun." 

"Of  course,  my  wife  will  stay  out  here  while  I  stay," 
spoke  George's  father  to  Terry's.  "So  will  George. 
But  if  there's  much  trouble  with  the  Indians  or  from 
the  Southern  people  I'd  feel  easier  to  have  Virgie  some- 
where else.  What  do  you  think  about  taking  her  East 
with  you  for  a  spell  ?" 

"Glad  to  do  so.  She  can  live  with  Terry  and  his 
mother  just  as  well  as  not.  Maybe  on  the  ranch;  or 
if  Kansas  is  raided,  they  can  all  get  quarters  in  Leaven- 
worth." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  wailed  Virgie. 

"Yes,  you  do,  Virgie,"  Terry  comforted.  "We'll 
ride  on  the  stage  and  have  a  lot  of  fun." 

This  certainly  was  a  sudden  great  change  of  plans. 
Here  they  all  had  prepared  to  start  the  quartz  mill  at 
once  and  make  a  big  summer's  run  of  gold  from  the 
Virginia  Consolidated,  not  to  speak  of  enjoying  life 
in  the  mountains ;  and  almost  in  a  twinkling  they  had 
decided  to  close  up  shop  again — George  and  his  father 
were  to  stay  for  a  while  in  Denver,  Terry  and  his 
father  and  mother  and  Virgie  wer£  to  hurry  across  the 
plains  by  Overland  stage  for  Kansas,  Harry  would 
keep  on  riding  express,  what  Sol  Judy  would  do  they 
did  not  know ;  Shep  had  said  not  a  word,  but  he'd  go 


12  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

where  Terry  went;  Jenny,  Harry's  yellow  mule,  and 
Duke,  Terry's  half -buffalo,  would  have  to  be  put  at 
pasture. 

So  it  was  arranged.  And  throughout  the  wide  na- 
tion the  plans  of  other  people  were  being  upset,  too. 
No  place,  whether  it  be  a  New  York  or  a  Gregory 
Gulch  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  can  escape  being  af- 
fected by  war  when  war  occurs. 

Terry  and  his  father  and  Virgie  piled  into  the 
Hinckley  stage  down,  the  next  morning,  for  Denver, 
to  book  early  passage  on  the  Overland  to  the  Missouri 
River — a  round  six  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  Shep 
accompanied,  afoot.  Harry  already  had  started  back 
on  his  horse. 

"We'll  be  down  to  see  you  off,"  called  George  to 
Terry.  "You'd  better  have  your  hair  cut  short,  so  the 
Injuns  won't  get  it!" 


CHAPTER  II 

ON    THE   BOX   OF   THE   OVERLAND 

"ALL  'board !"  Driver  Sol  Judy's  voice  sounded 
briskly,  as  he  strode  out  from  the  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  stage 
office,  his  whip  under  his  arm  while  he  drew  on  his 
gloves  in  preparation  to  mount  the  box  and  gather  the 
lines. 

The  Terry  party  had  been  ready  for  two  weeks,  but 
this  was  the  earliest  "booking"  that  they  could  secure. 

The  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  stage  on  the  Denver  branch  line 
left  Denver  only  three  times  a  week,  to  connect  with 
the  main  Overland  line  at  Julesburg,  about  two  hun- 
dred miles  northwest  on  the  South  Platte  River.  The 
war  news  brought  by  Harry  Revere  had  created  intense 
excitement.  The  next  Pony  Express  dispatch  had  said 
that  the  President  had  called  for  75,000  volunteers  to 
serve  for  three  months.  This  increased  the  rush  of 
people  wishing  to  go  East. 

George  and  his  father  had  come  down  from  the  mine 
to  see  the  Richards  and  Virgie  off.  Now  George  had 
Virgie  by  the  one  hand  and  Terry  had  her  by  the  other, 
while  they  made  a  bee-line  for  the  stage  office  at  the 
Planter's  House. 

A  large  crowd  had  collected  there.  Sol  had  called 

13 


i4  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"All  'board!" — his  figure  might  be  sighted  passing 
through  the  lane  respectfully  opened  for  him — a  hostler 
was  holding  the  lead  team  by  the  bits,  another  held  the 
lines.  Virgie,  hurrying  as  fast  as  she  could,  between 
the  two  boys,  panted  and  wailed. 

"Will  we  be  too  late?  Won't  we  ride  on  the  box? 
I  want  to  ride  on  the  box  with  Sol." 

"He  promised  to  save  it  for  us,  but  maybe  he'll  for- 
get," gasped  Terry.  The  driver's  box  was  the  choice 
seat. 

"Come  on,  Virgie.  Don't  bawl,"  George  urged. 
"We're  almost  there." 

Sol  was  just  about  to  climb  up.  His  foot  was  upon 
the  wheel  hub  and  his  gloved  hand  upon  the  seat  rail. 
The  boot  at  the  coach  rear  was  bulging  with  baggage 
and  mail,  and  passengers'  heads  were  sticking  out  from 
the  coach  body,  for  good-byes  with  relatives  and 
friends. 

Virgie  panted  hopefully.  There  was  nobody  on  the 
box  yet.  But  as  Sol  swung  to  his  seat,  someone  else 
swung  also,  from  the  opposite  side,  and  wellnigh 
plumped  into  him. 

He  was  a  shaggy  sort  of  man,  with  black  whiskers 
covering  his  face  fromliis  bushy  eyebrows  down,  and 
unkempt  black  hair.  He  wore  a  dilapidated,  black 
slouch  hat,  blue  flannel  shirt,  belted  trousers  tucked  into 
heavy  boots,  and  a  six-shooter  at  his  right  hip. 

Virgie  cried  shrilly,  in  despair ;  and  Terry  exclaimed 
disgustedly : 

"Aw,  thunder!  Now  we've  lost  it.  That's  Pine 
Knot  Ike.  He  won't  give  it  up." 


ON  THE  BOX  OF  THE  OVERLAND       15 

"There's  room  for  three,  but  you  wouldn't  ride 
there  with  him,  anyway,"  growled  George. 

But  Sol  was  attending  to  the  matter  promptly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  calculate  to  do  up  here?"  he 
demanded. 

"I  reckon  I'm  goin'  to  ride.  That's  what  this  thing's 
got  wheels  under  it  for,  ain't  it?"  retorted  Pine  Knot 
Ike. 

"You  may  be  going  to  ride,  but  you  don't  ride  on 
this  box  along  with  me,"  answered  Sol.  "So  I'll  thank 
you  to  get  off  and  get  under." 

"Why  so?  I've  paid  my  fare,  an'  this  seat  ain't 
okkipied." 

"Yes,  'tis,"  answered  Sol. 

"Who  by?" 

"By  the  driver." 

"I  reckon  you  aim  to  cover  too  much  territory," 
sneered  Pine  Knot  Ike.  He  was  a  very  unpleasant 
character.  George  and  Terry — and  Virgie  as  well — 
had  met  him  before.  His  reputation  had  not  improved 
any,  either,  since  he  had  been  in  the  Gregory  "dig- 
gin's." 

"I  need  plenty  of  room,"  said  Sol.  "I  always 
scrooge  'round  consider'ble.  Now,  are  you  going  to 
get  off  feet  first  or  head  first;  'cause  this  stage  can't 
stand  here  all  day,  waiting?" 

Pine  Knot  Ike  swelled  wrath  fully. 

"Don't  crowd  me,"  he  warned.  "My  name's  Ike 
Chubbers,  but  I  air  called  Pine  Knot,  for  I'm  so  awful 
tough.  I  appeal  to  this  hyar  crowd  if  it's  standin'  by 
an'  seem'  a  prominent  citizen  abused  after  he's  paid 


1 6  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

his  fare  an'  is  bound  to  fight  for  his  country.  I'm  nat- 
ur'ly  a  man  o'  peace,  but  when  I'm  crowded  I'm  apt 
to  rare  up.  I  can  be  pushed  jest  so  fur " 

"I'll  help  you  along,"  rapped  Sol,  with  sudden 
movement.  In  a  jiffy  he  had  grasped  Pine  Knot  by 
the  collar  and  a  leg,  and  thrown  him  off  sprawling. 

Virgie  gasped — "Is  he  hurt?"  But  George  yelled 
gleefully  like  an  Indian,  and  Terry  and  most  of  the 
crowd  joined.  There  was  small  sympathy  for  Pine 
Knot.  No  passenger  might  ride  on  the  box,  except  by 
the  driver's  permission.  The  driver  "owned"  the  box, 
just  as  an  engineer  "owns"  his  cab.  It  was  a  law  of 
the  Overland  Stage. 

Pine  Knot  Ike  was  not  hurt.  No  doubt  his  "tough- 
ness" saved  him.  He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  roared : 

"I'll  see  the  agent  about  this.  I'll  see  if  a  peaceful- 
abidin'  citizen  who's  paid  his  fare " 

"Go  ahead  and  see  him,"  replied  Sol.  "When  I'm 
on  this  box  I'm  a  bigger  man  than  the  agent." 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  Terry's  folks  and 
George's  folks  arrived. 

"Pine  Knot  Ike  had  our  seat,  and  Sol  threw  him 
right  off,"  explained  Virgie. 

"Oh,  dear!  Is  he  a  passenger,  too?"  sighed  Terry's 
mother. 

"That's  all  right,"  hastily  spoke  Mr.  Richards. 
"Terry  and  Virgie  can  ride  inside.  Don't  let's  start 
off  by  making  trouble." 

But  Sol  carried  the  day. 

"All  'board !"  he  called  again.    "Here,  you "  and 


ON  THE  BOX  OF  THE  OVERLAND       17 

he  crooked  his  finger  at  his  two  friends  below.  "Come 
aloft." 

Good !    Virgie  was  boosted  up,  Terry  climbed  after. 

"Toss  your  traps  on  the  upper  deck,"  bade  Sol  to 
the  others;  and  the  hand  luggage  landed  on  the  flat 
top  of  the  stage,  where  a  railing  kept  such  stuff  from 
sliding  off.  Each  passenger  was  allowed  only  twenty- 
five  pounds.  Trunks  had  to  go  by  wagon-freight. 

Terry's  father  and  mother  hastily  entered  the  stage. 

"Hey!"  yelled  a  voice.  "Whar's  my  seat?  I  claim 
that  thar  seat!" 

But  Sol  paid  no  attention.  He  took  the  lines  of  the 
six-horse  team,  handed  up  to  him  by  the  respectful 
helper,  assorted  them  in  his  fingers,  nodded  at  the 
hostler  holding  the  bits  of  the  lead  team,  the  hostler 
sprang  aside,  with  a  clang  the  heavy  brake  was  kicked 
free — and  Pine  Knot  Ike  dived  into  the  stage  door  just 
as,  with  a  great  leap,  the  six  horses  sprang  forward. 

The  crowd  cheered. 

"Hang  onto  your  hair,  Terry!"  shouted  George. 
"I'll  be  good  to  Shep."  For  there  was  no  way  of  tak- 
ing a  dog. 

"Good-bye,  good-bye!" 

They  were  off.  Distance  to  the  Missouri  River,  six 
hundred  and  fifty-two  miles;  time,  six  days;  fare,  $75  ; 
meals,  $i  to  50  cents,  at  the  station  houses;  sleeping 
quarters,  the  stage  itself. 

Sol  let  his  horses  gallop,  and  snapped  his  gold 
watch. 

"Five  minutes  late,"  he  remarked.  "All  on  account 
of  that  seat-hog.  But  we'll  make  it  up,  if  we  don't 


i8  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

bust  a,  thorough-brace.     We're  loaded  plumb  to  the 
guards." 

The  thorough-brace,  of  course,  was  one  of  the 
broad,  thick  leather  straps  upon  which  the  coach  body 
was  slung  instead  of  on  springs.  The  coach  itself  was 
a  round-bodied  Concord,  made  by  the  celebrated  stage- 
coach builders,  the  Abbott-Downing  Company,  of  Con- 
cord, New  Hampshire.  It  held  nine  passengers  inside ; 
three  to  a  seat.  Behind  there  was  an  immense  triangu- 
lar rack,  covered  by  a  leather  flap,  for  baggage.  This 
was  the  "boot" ;  and  underneath  the  driver's  seat  there 
was  another  boot,  with  a  leather  curtain  in  front,  where 
valuable  express  was  to  be  stored,  when  necessary. 

The  coach  had  been  painted  black,  but  was  now  gray 
with  the  whitish  dust  of  the  plains.  The  flap  of  the 
rear  boot  had  two  arrow  holes  through  it,  from  an  In- 
dian attack ;  so  had  a  door  panel — clear  through ;  the 
roof  was  scarred  by  hail.  The  gilt  letters  "C.  O.  C.  & 
P.  P."  for  Central  Overland  California  &  Pike's  Peak, 
running  across  lengthwise  just  under  the  top  rail,  had 
been  nearly  worn  off  by  sand  and  weather. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  veteran  coach — an  old-timer  on 
the  plains. 

The  six  horses  in  their  jingling  harness  loped  easily, 
and  the  coach,  crammed  with  passengers,  baggage  and 
mail,  rocked  after  on  its  stout  thorough-braces.  It  was 
so  heavy  and  so  nicely  cradled  that  the  bumps  in  the 
road  were  scarcely  noticed. 

But  on  the  box  was  the  best  place.  Sol  sat  straight, 
with  his  feet  planted  firmly  on  the  deep,  upward  curv- 
ing dash.  Virgie  was  in  the  middle ;  her  legs  stuck  out 


ON  THE  BOX  OF  THE  OVERLAND       19 

before.  Terry  was  at  the  end;  he  could  feel  for  the 
dash,  but  could  barely  touch  it  with  his  toes. 

Inside  the  coach,  the  passengers  who  faced  each 
other  almost  touched  knees,  and  they  all  could  see  out 
only  through  the  open  windows.  Sometimes,  on  ac- 
count of  the  dust  or  sun,  they  drew  down  the  leather 
window  curtains,  which  buckled  fast.  That  was  rather 
stuffy.  One  person  might  want  the  curtain  down,  and 
another  might  want  it  up. 

But  high  on  top  the  coach,  close  behind  the  wheel 
team,  anybody  had  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  might  see 
everything  for  miles  around. 

Terry's  hat-brim,  like  Sol's,  flared  back  in  the 
breeze ;  Virgie  tied  tighter  the  strings  of  her  pink  sun- 
bonnet.  At  a  sandy  stretch  Sol  cleverly  pulled  down 
his  tugging  team  to  a  walk. 

"So,  boys !    Save  your  wind/' 

But  presently  his  long  lash  flew  out,  and  cracked 
just  above  the  leaders,  to  break  them  into  a  trot.  He 
touched  up  the  swing  team  (the  first  pair  of  horses 
were  the  wheel  team,  the  second  the  swing  team,  and 
the  third  the  lead  team),  straightened  all  six  into  a 
rapid  trot,  and  spoke  to  Terry. 

"Well,  when  you  coming  back?" 

"I  don't  know.    After  the  war,  I  guess." 

"Are  you  going  to  war,  Sol  ?"  asked  Virgie. 

"Maybe  yes,  maybe  no.  I'll  go  where  I'm  most 
needed.  I  reckon  the  stages'll  have  to  be  kept  moving; 
but  a  one-legged  man  can  drive  and  I've  got  two  legs. 
I'll  make  another  trip  or  two,  then  I'll  see." 


20  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"The  war'll  be  over  in  three  months,  won't  it  ?"  pro- 
posed Terry. 

"Huh  P  Sol  grunted.  "Part  of  that's  brag  and  part 
of  it's  hope.  You  can't  depend  on  either.  The  North 
will  need  three  months  to  get  ready  in." 

The  leaving  time  at  Denver  was  eleven  o'clock. 
The  horses  moved  mainly  at  a  spanking  trot;  close  to 
five  miles  an  hour  was  their  schedule,  for  up  hill  and 
down.  The  schedule  for  the  Overland  stages  was  one 
hundred  and  twelve  miles  every  twenty-four  hours. 

The  prairie-dogs  sat  up  on  their  haunches  to  watch 
the  coach  pass ;  a  bunch  of  antelope  flashed  their  white 
rumps  and  scurried  away  like  the  wind. 

"Don't  we  see  any  buffalo,  Sol?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  particular,"  mused  Sol.  "When  you 
see  buff'ler  you're  likely  to  see  Injuns.  Last  winter  I 
drove  through  a  whole  herd,  though.  They  were  lying 
in  the  trail  and  I  had  to  shoo  at  'em  so's  to  get 
through." 

At  Box  Elder  station,  about  sixteen  miles  out,  the 
team  was  changed.  This  was  a  "swing"  station.  The 
next  station,  Living  Spring,  was  a  "home"  station 
where  meals  were  served. 

The  station  agent  and  the  "hands"  at  Box  Elder 
were  ready  and  waiting.  As  Sol  tossed  down  his  lines, 
he  again  snapped  his  watch. 

"Give  you  three  minutes  to  .inge  in,"  he  called. 
"We're  four  minutes  late.  No  use  getting  out,"  he 
added  to  the  passengers.  "But  if  you  do  get  out,  be 
ready  to  get  back  in  mighty  quick,  for  this  Overland 
doesn't  wait  on  anybody,  high  or  low." 


ON  THE  BOX  OF  THE  OVERLAND      21 

The  hostlers  worked  like  mad.  The  six  horses,  wet 
and  willing,  were  unhooked  and  rushed  away  and 
four  mules,  standing  already  harnessed,  were  immedi- 
ately clapped  into  their  places. 

"Any  war  news,  Sol?"  queried  tKe  station-keeper. 

"Nope."  Sol  grasped  the  bunch  of  lines,  kicked  the 
brake  free — "Clang!" — and  just  as  the  last  hostler 
sprang  away  the  mules  launched  out. 

"Three  minutes  exactly,"  sighed  Sol.  "Pretty  soon 
I'll  educate  'em  so  they  can  do  it  in  two." 

The  mules  were  lively,  and  twitched  the  rumbling, 
swaying  coach  as  if  it  were  a  toy.  Gradually  the  sun 
sank  toward  the  bluish,  white-crested  range  of  the 
Rockies,  far  behind  in  the  west.  Sol  spoke,  and 
pointed  with  his  whip. 

"Ought  to  meet  Harry  about  at  the  bunch  of  cotton- 
woods.  Yep,  there  he  comes.  See  him  ?" 

Away  yonder,  on  the  rolling  plains  ahead,  had  ap- 
peared a  dot.  It  rapidly  increased,  as  it  and  the  coach 
approached  each  other.  It  was  a  man  on  horseback — 
the  Pony  Express  for  Denver ;  and  he  was  coming  lick- 
ity-split. 

At  the  bunch  of  cottonwood  trees?  No — yes!  It 
seemed  a  race  between  the  coach  and  the  Pony  Express. 
That  was  Harry  Revere,  all  right.  Virgie  tore  off  her 
sun-bonnet,  to  wave — and  with  a  wild  yell  from  every- 
body on  the  coach  and  a  wild  yell  from  Harry,  pass 
each  other  they  did,  in  a  flash,  exactly  at  the  regula- 
tion place. 

"He's  on  time,"  quoth  Sol.    "And  so  are  we." 

Living  Spring  "home"  station  was  reached  at  sun- 


22  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

set.  Distance,  thirty-five  miles;  time,  seven  and  one- 
half  hours. 

"Look  at  the  Injuns !"  exclaimed  Terry. 

"Yep.  'Rapahos."  And,  with  brake  and  bits  check- 
ing his  galloping  mules  short  in  front  of  the  station 
door,  Sol  tossed  down  the  lines  to  the  waiting  hostler. 
"Here's  where  we  eat."  He  swung  to  the  ground. 
"Thirty  minutes  for  supper,  ladies  and  gents.  Price, 
one  dollar." 

"Come  on,  Virgie."  And  Terry  and  Virgie  fol- 
lowed. 

The  station  of  Living  Spring  consisted  of  only  the 
low  station  house,  and  the  stable  shed,  both  built  of 
sod  and  clay,  with  sod  roofs.  At  a  little  distance  on 
the  gravelly,  sagy  plain  there  were  half  a  dozen  Indian 
lodges,  round  and  peaked,  of  blackish  buffalo  hides. 

A  number  of  the  Indians — they  were  Arapahos,  all 
right — men  and  squaws  and  children,  were  on  hand 
to  watch  the  arrival  of  the  stage.  Virgie  was  foolishly 
afraid  of  them,  and  shrank  back;  but  Terry  knew 
Arapahos.  They  frequently  visited  Denver. 

"How?"  he  said  boldly.     "Hello,  Left  Hand." 

It  was  Left  Hand's  band.  Left  Hand  was  a  young 
chief,  next  in  rank  to  Little  Raven,  head  chief.  He 
spoke  English  and  acted  as  Little  Raven's  interpreter. 

"How,"  grunted  Left  Hand;  from  the  folds  of  his 
blanket  he  extended  his  hand  to  shake.  "You  ride 
with  mule  chief  on  paper  wagon?  Huh!"  "Paper 
wagon"  was  the  coach,  because  it  carried  the  mail. 

"Yes.    Going  to  Missouri  River." 


ON  THE  BOX  OF  THE  OVERLAND       23 

"Good.  Ride  heap  fast."  He  pointed  at  Virgie. 
"How  much?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Terry. 

"How  much  for  young  squaw  ?" 

"Aw !"  attempted  Terry — but  a  voice  interrupted. 

"Wait  a  second.  Let's  have  a  leetle  fun."  The 
voice  was  that  of  Pine  Knot  Ike.  Everybody  else  had 
entered  the  station  house  to  wash  and  eat.  But  while 
supper  was  being  prepared,  Pine  Knot  had  lingered. 
"No  hard  feelin's,"  he  continued.  "I'm  not  a  man  to 
cherish  hard  feelin's.  If  I'd  knowed  you  an*  the  gal 
wanted  that  thar  seat,  I'd  been  glad  to  'commodate  ye. 
I  air  called  tough,  but  I  got  a  soft  heart  for  young 
folks,  'specially  gals.  I  have  ten  gals  o'  my  own,  in 
my  happy  home  back  in  the  States."  And  Pine  Knot 
sniffed  through  his  tangled  whiskers.  Terry  sniffed, 
too.  Pine  Knot's  breath  was  suspiciously  tainted. 
"How  much  you  give?"  he  demanded  of  Left  Hand. 

"Four  pony,"  grunted  Left  Hand. 

"What  you  do  with  her?"  asked  Pine  Knot. 

"Keep.  Feed.  Need  'nother  squaw  some  day. 
Make  she  nice  young  squaw." 

"No,  no !"  wailed  Virgie,  aghast,  pulling  to  get  free. 
"I  don't  want  to  be  a  squaw."  And  away  she  ran,  into 
the  station. 

"Four  pony  too  leetle,"  rapidly  said  Pine  Knot,  as 
if  afraid  that  Terry  might  break  in.  "Fine  gal;  make 
fine  squaw.  Six  pony." 

"Five  pony,"  bargained  Left  Hand. 

"Aw,   quit   that!"   objected   Terry.      "What's  the 


24  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Never  you  mind,"  bade  Pine  Knot,  with  a  wink. 

"Me  an'  this  Injun  are  havin*  fun."  And "Six 

pony,"  he  added,  to  Left  Hand. 

"Me  see,"  grunted  Left  Hand;  and  wrapping  his 
blanket  about  him,  stalked  away. 

The  station  gong,  which  was  a  pan  beaten  with  a 
spoon,  sounded  for  supper. 

"You  made  him  think  we  were  in  earnest,"  said 
Terry,  wrathful,  as  he  hurried  in. 

"Pshaw,  that  was  jest  a  bit  o'  fun,"  repeated  Pine 
Knot  tipsily.  "I  love  fun,  an*  I  love  leetle  gals,  an' 
leetle  boys,  too.  Got  fifteen  o'  my  own." 

The  supper  was  antelope  steaks,  one  boiled  potato 
each,  bread,  mustard,  and  strong  coffee.  It  had  been 
cooked  by  the  station-man  himself,  and  was  served  on 
a  bare  board  table,  around  which  the  passengers  sat  on 
buffalo-hide  stools  and  up-turned  boxes. 

But  everybody  was  hungry. 

Virgie  had  dried  her  eyes.  She  sat  close  beside 
Terry's  mother. 

"What's  that,  about  Virgie  going  to  be  a  squaw?" 
demanded  Terry's  father. 

"Left  Hand's  going  to  give  six  ponies  for  her," 
teased  Terry. 

"No!"  wailed  Virgie.    "I  sha'n't  be  a  squaw." 

"No;  and  you  don't  have  to  be,"  comforted  Mrs. 
Richards.  And  everybody  laughed. 

"Six  ponies  is  a  heap  of  money  to  a  'Rapaho,"  ob- 
served the  station-keeper. 

Virgie  ate  in  a  hurry,  and  was  first  to  the  door. 


ON  THE  BOX  OF  THE  OVERLAND      25 

Suddenly  she  ran  back  in,  and  hid  behind  Mother  Rich- 
ards' skirts. 

"He's  out  there!"  she  cried.  "And  he's  got  six 
ponies." 

That  was  true.  In  the  dusk  Left  Hand  was  stand- 
ing patiently,  holding  the  hide  thongs  of  six  ponies. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   LIVELY   TIME   AT   JULESBURG 

"HAW,  haw!"  roared  Pine  Knot.  "That's  a  joke 
on  the  Injun/' 

"By  jiminy,  it's  too  early  to  laugh!"  Sol  asserted. 
"Who  engineered  that  deal?  You?" 

"He  said  he  did  it  for  fun,"  answered  Terry. 
"Don't  cry,  Virgie.  You  sha'n't  be  sold." 

"You'd  best  go  along  to  the  coach,  an'  put  the  gal 
inside,"  directed  the  station-keeper.  "These  Injuns 
can  act  ornery.  Some  jokes  they  don't  understand." 

Sol  hastily  stepped  outside. 

"Puckachee  (Get  out)  !"  they  heard  him  say  to  Left 
Hand. 

Mother  Richards  picked  up  Virgie,  and  they  all  fol- 
lowed. Pine  Knot  was  still  sillily  chuckling. 

"You're  a  wretch!"  scolded  Mother  Richards  at 
him,  over  her  shoulder. 

"Six  pony.  Take  young  squaw,"  alertly  uttered  Left 
Hand. 

The  coach  was  standing,  ready,  with  six  horses 
again,  and  with  its  two  great  oil  lamps  lighted. 
Mother  Richards  fairly  ran  past  Left  Hand,  and 
hustled  herself  and  Virgie  inside,  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ner. 

26 


A  LIVELY  TIME  AT  JULESBURG      27 

"No  sell,"  said  Father  Richards  to  Left  Hand. 
"My  girl.  No  sell." 

"Six  pony,"  Left  Hand  insisted,  stepping  forward. 
"Man  and  boy  say  six  pony." 

"That  was  a  joke,  Left  Hand,"  Terry  pleaded. 

"Huh?"  Left  Hand  glared  at  him.  "No.  No 
joke.  Lie."  And  with  surprising  quickness  he 
dropped  the  thongs  and  sprang  at  Pine  Knot.  "You 
say  six  pony.  They  no  sell.  You  lie.  Mebbe  you  pay 
ten  dollar." 

Pine  Knot  swayed  and  paled ;  his  hand  fumbled  for 
his  revolver  butt.  Left  Hand  fiercely  seized  his  wrist. 

"Ten  dollar.  You  pay.  No  pay,  you  stay.  Make 
you  'Rapaho  squaw.  Heap  big  squaw,  do  heap  work." 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Sol.  "That's  the  ticket. 
Hooray!"  He  climbed  to  the  box.  "All  'board. 
Time's  up." 

"Ten  dollar,"  repeated  Left  Hand,  holding  Pine 
Knot.  "Ten  dollar  for  lie." 

"Hey!  You  all  goin'  on  an'  leave  a  peaceable  citi- 
zen to  be  sculped?"  appealed  Pine  Knot  vainly. 

"Aren't  you  to  ride  inside  for  the  night,  Terry?" 
was  calling  Mother  Richards. 

"Can't  I  ride  with  Sol?" 

"But  you'll  be  Cold." 

"Just  pass  him  out  a  blanket,  and  I'll  fix  him,"  in- 
vited Sol.  "All  'board."  He  had  donned  gloves  and 
overcoat. 

But  they  weren't  rid  of  Pine  Knot.  He  had  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  trousers  pocket,  paid  his  fee,  and  was 
lurching  for  the  coach. 


28  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Fust  I  get  robbed  of  my  rightful  an'  lawful  seat/* 
he  complained,  almost  sobbing,  "an'  now  I  get  robbed 
by  an  Injun.  All  jest  'cause  I'm  a  peaceable  citizen 
an'  love  leetle  gals.  I've  got  twenty  leetle  gals  an' 
boys  o'  my  own." 

Terry  gladly  grabbed  a  blanket,  and  mounted.  The 
brake  clanged  once  more,  and  the  coach  lunged  for- 
ward into  the  shadowed  plains. 

Sol  settled  for  his  all-night  drive,  clear  to  Bijou 
Junction,  sixty  miles  on,  or  ninety-five  from  Denver. 

With  a  buffalo  robe  over  their  knees,  and  the  blanket 
in  reserve,  Terry  was  grandly  comfortable.  The  dark- 
ness gathered  rapidly.  The  coach  lamps  shone  only 
as  far  as  the  lead  team,  but  they  illuminated  the  sides 
of  the  road,  and  the  horses  knew  the  trail  well. 

And  this  was  great  fun,  to  be  lumbering  swiftly 
through  the  night,  with  the  stars  overhead  and  the  eerie 
sage  flashing  by. 

"Nope;  doesn't  pay  to  joke  with  an  Injun  in  that 
fashion,"  observed  Sol.  "The  joke  turns  wrong  end 
fust.  Well,  pretty  soon  we  meet  the  down  coach. 
'Spect  you'll  want  to  stay  up  and  see  it.  Then  where'll 
you  sleep?  In  the  boot,  or  on  top?" 

"On  top." 

"All  right.  I'll  wear  the  blanket,  and  you  can  crawl 
back  and  wedge  yourself  comfort'ble  under  the  bufFler 
robe." 

A  pair  of  lights  appeared  ahead.  It  was  the  down 
coach,  bound  for  Denver.  With  a  rush  and  a  single 
whoop  apiece  they  passed  each  other.  Terry  yawned 
prodigiously  after  this,  and  concluded  to  go  to  bed. 


A  LIVELY  TIME  AT  JULESBURG      29 

This  was  easily  done.  He  stowed  his  shoes  and 
coat  in  the  boot  under  the  seat  (he  might  have  slept 
there,  and  he  did,  later  on  the  trip),  and,  trading  his 
blanket  for  the  buffalo  robe,  crawled  back  upon  the 
coach  top.  Here  he  wedged  in  among  the  luggage, 
rolled  in  the  buffalo  robe,  and  stretched  out  on  his 
back. 

Down  below,  inside  the  coach,  the  passengers, 
wrapped  in  shawls  and  blankets  and  overcoats,  sat  up 
all  night,  and  nodded  and  gurgled,  and  weren't  com- 
fortable at  all.  But  aloft,  the  air  was  fresh  and  the 
stars  shone,  and  the  coach  rocked  like  a  cradle,  and 
barricaded  by  the  luggage  a  fellow  couldn't  be  thrown 
off.  Terry  woke  only  twice :  once  when  the  team  was 
being  changed  at  some  station,  and  once  into  daylight 
before  the  coach  was  pulling  into  Bijou! 

He  felt  first-rate,  but  the  inside  passengers  were 
considerably  the  worse  for  wear — Pine  Knot  the  worst 
of  all.  Sol  stayed  at  Bijou  to  sleep,  himself,  and  to 
take  the  down  coach  back  to  Denver.  But  after  break- 
fast he  obligingly  passed  Terry  and  Virgie  on  to  the 
new  driver. 

"These  two  are  top  passengers  for  you,  Dick/*  he 
said ;  so  that  was  settled. 

Julesburg,  the  end  of  the  Denver  division,  was 
still  one  hundred  miles  eastward.  AH  that  day  they 
trundled  down  the  Platte  River,  with  halts  only  at  the 
"swing"  stations,  for  change  of  teams,  and  at  the 
"home"  stations,  for  meals  also.  Virgie  was  afraid  to 
sleep  in  the  dark,  outside,  but  Terry  woke  up,  atop, 
at  Julesburg,  in  the  sunshine. 


30  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Distance  from  Denver,  one  hundred  and  ninety-five 
miles;  time,  forty-three  hours. 

Julesburg  was  a  lively  place.  It  was  the  end  of  the 
Denver  division  of  the  Overland,  and  also  was  a  di- 
vision point  of  the  main  Overland  between  St.  Joseph 
on  the  Missouri  River  and  Salt  Lake  of  Utah.  The 
stages  from  the  Missouri  River  crossed  the  Platte  here 
and  turned  northwest,  for  Fort  Laramie  of  "Ne- 
braska" and  the  South  Pass  over  the  Rockies,  to  Utah.. 
The  stages  from  Salt  Lake  rolled  in  by  the  same  route. 
Passengers  for  Denver  were  transferred  to  the  Denver 
coach. 

The  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  timecard  bore  the  name  "Over- 
land City"  instead  of  Julesburg,  on  account  of  Jules- 
burg's  bad  reputation  as  a  trading  station  in  emigrant 
days.  The  emigrants  for  Oregon  and  California 
forded  the  South  Platte  here,  on  their  way  by  the  Ore- 
gon Trail.  There  had  been  wild  scenes. 

The  new  name  on  the  timecards  made  no  difference. 
As  "Julesburg"  was  it  known,  just  the  same. 

Julesburg  had  a  number  of  buildings — a  station  and 
stable  well-built  of  chinked  logs,  and  a  blacksmith 
shop,  and  a  store. 

Everybody  from  the  Denver  stage  had  a  good  chance 
to  stretch  legs,  after  breakfast,  while  waiting  for  the 
through  stage  from  Salt  Lake. 

"No,  ma'am,  I  can't  promise  a  thing,"  was  saying  a 
quiet,  wiry  man  to  a  large  woman  in  hoop-skirts  and 
sunbonnet,  carrying  a  faded,  rolled  umbrella.  "The 
traffic  east  is  unusually  heavy.  Every  through  stage 


A  LIVELY  TIME  AT  JULESBURG        31 

is  crowded.  You'll  have  to  wait  your  turn.  That's 
the  best " 

"Wait?"  The  large  woman  began  to  swell.  "You 
little  whippersnapper,  you  tell  me  to  wait?  Here  I've 
been  a-waitin'  all  day  an'  all  night."  She  must  have 
come  in  from  a  ranch.  "Don't  you  dare  tell  me  again 
to  'wait.'  I've  paid  my  money  and  I  guess  I'm  en- 
titled to  a  seat."  Suddenly  she  clutched  her  umbrella 
tighter,  and  flourished  it  point  first.  "Wait?"  She 
jabbed  at  the  quiet,  wiry  man,  and  he  abruptly  re- 
treated a  step.  "You  (poke)  tell  (poke)  me  (poke) 
to  wait  (poke)?  Not  much  (poke),  you  don't 
(poke) !"  * 

The  quiet,  wiry  man  was  backing  as  fast  as  he 
might. 

"Very  well,  madam,"  he  attempted.     "I'll  see " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  see.  I'll  (poke)  see  for  my- 
self (poke).  I've  got  eyes  and  a  tongue  (poke).  Do 
I  (poke)  leave  by  the  next  stage  (poke)  ?" 

"You  do,  madam,  even  if  you  crowd  the  driver  off 
onto  the  wheel  team,"  hastily  assured  the  quiet,  wiry 
man. 

"You  bet  I  do!"  declared  the  large  woman,  glaring 
about.  "I'm  some  punkins,  when  I  get  started." 

"By  gosh,"  chuckled  the  station-keeper.  "Fust  time 
I  ever  knew  Jack  Slade  to  back  down." 

"Oh,  that's  Jack  Slade,  is  he?"  remarked  Terry's 
father. 

Terry  stared,  also.  Everybody  on  the  line  of  the 
Overland  stage  knew  of  the  celebrated  Jack  Slade. 


32  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

He  had  been  made  division  superintendent  between 
Julesburg  and  Rocky  Ridge — the  Sweetwater  Division 
— on  purpose  to  clean  out  the  tough  characters.  And 
he  had  done  it — had  shot  or  hanged  a  lot  of  outlaws, 
horse-thieves,  and  gun-men.  But  he  didn't  look  it. 

He  was  of  good  taut  figure — the  quick,  panthery 
kind;  weighed  maybe  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds, 
without  any  fat;  had  a  hard,  square-jawed,  thin-lipped 
face,  smooth-shaven,  but  unsmiling;  prominent  cheek 
bones,  like  an  Indian,  and  dark  slaty  eyes ;  wore  ordi- 
nary clothes,  broad-brimmed  black  hat,  open  coat, 
loose-collared  flannel  shirt,  trousers  and  high  boots, 
and  a  revolver. 

People  said  that  he  was  the  best  revolver  shot,  off- 
hand, on  the  line. 

So  that  was  Jack  Slade,  was  it?  Terry  resolved 
to  write  George  all  about  him. 

"Yes,  gents  an'  ladies,"  the  station-keeper  kept  re- 
peating, in  awe.  "Fust  time  I  ever  knew  of  Jack 
Slade  backin'  down.  But  I  don't  blame  him." 

The  large  woman  stood  firmly  planted,  her  eyes  upon 
the  Salt  Lake  stage  road.  She  had  made  up  her  mind. 

"We're  doubling  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  an- 
nounced Slade.  "There'll  be  another  stage  close  after 
this  one  now  coming." 

"I  double  up  for  nobody,"  proclaimed  the  large 
woman. 

"No,  ma'am,"  agreed  Superintendent  Slade  politely. 
"You're  a  whole  team  in  yourself,  including  the  little 
dog  under  the  wagon." 

The  first  stage  from  the  west  was  jammed ;  but,  in 


A  LIVELY  TIME  AT  JULESBURG      33 

spite  of  the  cries/  and  protests  and  struggles  to  keep 
her  out,  the  large  woman  resolutely  forced  herself  in, 
umbrella  used  bayonet  fashion ;  from  the  opposite  door 
dived  a  man,  breathless  and  laughing,  and,  amidst 
cheers,  clambered  atop,  where  he  rode  perched  peril- 
ously on  a  pile  of  baggage. 

Now  it  was  weary  waiting,  with  the  sun  hot  and 
nothing  to  look  at  except  the  shallow,  muddy  Platte, 
the  prairie  dogs,  and  the  sage  brush.  But  there  was  a 
series  of  loud  yells  from  the  store,  and  out  lurched 
Pine  Knot  Ike.  He  evidently  had  been  busy  drinking 
whiskey. 

"Whoopie!"  he  yelped.  "Whar's  the  pusson  who 
wants  to  gaze  on  a  genuyine  half  hoss,  half  alligator? 
I'm  a  howlin',  I  air !  I  needs  room.  Whenever  I  gets 
limbered  up  on  rattlesnake  pizen,  I  needs  room."  He 
flourished  his  revolver — Bang!  "Whoop!  Whar's 
the  man  who  says  I  don't  ride  as  I  please?  Whar's 
the  Injun  who  tuk  my  hard-earned  ten  dollars? 
(Bang!)  I  wants  a  stage.  Do  I  get  a  stage,  so's  to 
fight  for  my  country?  I'm  Pine  Knot  Ike,  an'  I  cuts 
my  teeth  on  a  buzz-saw.  Whoop !" 

But  Superintendent  Slade  was  walking  directly  for 
him. 

"That  will  do.  Not  another  yap.  Get  out  of  sight 
and  stay  there." 

Pine  Knot  gasped,  astonished. 

"Do  I  hear  you  speak,  stranger?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  You  heard  me  tell  you  to  quit  that  noise  and 
to  get  out  of  sight  and  stay  there.  You're  alarming 
the  ladies." 


34  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Pine  Knot  leveled  his  revolver;  it  wavered,  but  he 
leveled  it. 

"Mebbe  you  don't  know  who  you're  speakin'  at, 
stranger.  Mebbe  you  don't  know  that  those  air  like 
to  be  yore  last  words.  Mebbe  you  think  you're  a  bet- 
ter man  than  I  am.  Say !  What  might  you  call  yore- 
self?" 

"I'm  just  Jack  Slade,  but  I'm  superintendent  of  this 
division,  and  I'm  BOSS  of  this  RANCH !  Hands  up, 
quick!" 

Mr.  Slade's  voice  had  changed  abruptly.  It  rang 
like  a  trumpet;  and  so  lightning  fast  that  the  eye 
had  not  followed,  his  own  revolver  was  out,  and 
poised  at  his  hip,  pointed  straight  in  line  with 
Pine  Knot. 

Up  rose  Pine  Knot's  two  hands ;  his  bushy  jaw  fell. 

"You  got  the  drop  on  me,  Mr.  Slade.  I  didn't  know 
'twas  you,  Mr.  Slade.  'Deed  I  didn't,  Mr.  Slade." 

"Higher!    Put  'em  up  higher!" 

"I'm  a  peaceable  man,  Mr.  Slade.  I  has  my  little 
fun,  occasional.  But  I'll  leave  it  to  these  ladies  and 
gents  if  I'm  not  the  peacefulest,  best-natured " 

Bang! 

"Wow !"  Pine  Knot's  revolver  flew  wide,  whirling 
over  and  over,  and  Pine  Knot  danced  and  wrung  his 
fingers  desperately.  Mr.  Slade  had  neatly  shot  it  out 
of  his  hand,  but  was  not  done. 

"Steady!  Put  up  those  hands.  Stand  right  where 
you  are."  He  deliberately  backed  away  twenty  paces. 
"Kindly  turn  exactly  sideways.  Steady  now.  Don't 


A  LIVELY  TIME  AT  JULESBURG      35 

move  a  fraction  of  an  inch  or  you're  a  dead 
man." 

"You  aren't  going  to  kill  me,  Mr.  Slade?  Please 
don't,  Mr.  Slade.  You  wouldn't  kill  a  peaceable  citi- 
zen, who  doesn't  harm  a  fly.  I've  a  large  family,  Mr. 
Slade.  Twenty  leetle  boys  an'  gals " 

"Steady !"  bade  Mr.  Slade.  "I'll  unbutton  that  coat 
for  you,  but  I'll  have  to  shoot  pretty  close."  Bang! 

"Wow!"  cried  Pine  Knot,  and  sprang  into  the  air. 
The  top  button  of  his  coat  had  been  snipped  off  as  slick 
as  the  head  from  a  daisy. 

"Stand  where  you  are.  Turn  sideways  again.  Now 
for  the  second  button."  Bang ! 

"Don't  that  do,  Mr.  Slade?"  whined  Pine  Knot. 
"I'm  a  pore  man,  an'  these  buttons  cost  money." 

But — bang ! 

"Now  you  get  out  of  sight,  or  Til  begin  on  your 
trousers,"  said  Mr.  Slade  crisply.  "Vamose!  You 
go  into  that  store,  tell  the  storekeeper  to  give  you  a 
set  of  new  buttons,  and  don't  you  come  out  till  you've 
sewed  them  on.  You  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Slade,  sir,"  meekly  acknowledged 
Pine  Knot;  and,  thoroughly  sobered,  he  scuttled  for 
the  store;  paused  only  long  enough  to  rescue  his  re- 
volver, and  continued  on  hands  and  knees,  not  daring 
to  straighten  up! 

"Slade  could  have  killed  him  as  easy  as  not,"  re- 
marked the  station-keeper.  "But  he's  a  gentleman, 
an'  doesn't  like  to  scare  the  ladies." 

"The  stage  is  due,"  announced  Mr.  Slade,  leisurely 


36  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

walking  back.  "I  regret  this  little  scene,  but  we  must 
have  order  on  the  line.  You'll  find  plenty  of  room  in 
this  coach,  I  think." 

Pine  Knot  evidently  was  still  sewing  on  his  buttons, 
for  he  did  not  reappear,  and  the  passengers  voted  it 
good  riddance. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TERRY    SAVES    THE    DAY 

AFTER  the  excitement  at  Julesburg,  Virgie  decided 
to  stay  close  to  the  grown  people ;  so  now  she  was  rid- 
ing inside.  But  there  was  a  third  person  on  the  box, 
along  with  Terry  and  the  driver. 

He  was  a  wiry,  well-built  boy,  scarcely  older  than 
Terry,  with  long,  rich  brown  hair  and  steady  brown 
eyes.  He  wore  regular  frontier  costume  of  broad- 
brimmed  black  hat,  flannel  shirt,  and  trousers  tucked 
into  cowhide  boots,  and  a  revolver  at  his  waist.  He 
bore  himself  with  the  air  of  a  man,  and  seemed  well 
known  to  the  driver. 

Terry  sat  in  the  middle,  and  had  plenty  of  room. 
Pretty  soon  the  driver  flicked  his  lash  again,  and  spoke 
to  Terry, 

"What  might  they  call  you,  youngster?" 

"Terry  Richards." 

"Where  you  from?" 

"Denver." 

"Well,  shake  hands  with  Billy  Cody.  Billy's  been 
riding  pony  express  up  on  the  Sweetwater  division 
beyond  Laramie." 

By  gracious,  so  he  had !    His  name  was  as  famous, 

37 


38  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

out  hereabouts,  as  that  of  Jack  Slade.  He  had  started 
in  at  pony  express  when  he  was  only  fifteen;  now  he 
was  sixteen  and  had  been  riding  the  same  as  a  man, 
on  one  of  the  most  dangerous  stretches  of  the  Salt 
Lake  route.  His  adventures  had  been  printed  in  the 
papers — youngest  rider  on  the  trail,  and  all  grit. 

Terry  felt  his  eyes  popping;  but  Billy  Cody  only 
grinned  at  him  and  shook  hands  without  a  word  of 
brag. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  rode  a  little,  and  tended  stock  at 
division  headquarters.  Reckon  I'm  due  at  home  now. 
Where  you  bound  for?  Going  through?" 

"Not  quite.  We  have  a  ranch  in  the  Big  Blue  Val- 
ley in  Kansas,  and  I  guess  we'll  stop  off  there,  first. 
But  my  father's  going  to  Leavenworth  to  enlist." 

"So  am  I,"  declared  Billy  Cody.  "I  mean  to  see  this 
war  through.  Maybe  they'll  think  I'm  too  young  for 
soldiering,  but  I  can  get  a  recommend  from  the  stage 
company  that  I'm  a  sure-'nough  scout.  I  can  ride  and 
I  can  shoot." 

"You're  a  sure-'nough  scout,  all  right,"  echoed  the 
driver.  "Suppose  you'll  go  to  Leavenworth,  your- 
self." 

"Yes.  Want  to  see  my  mother,  too.  I  haven't  been 
home  for  about  a  year." 

"You  two  fellows  are  sort  of  neighbors,  ain't  you  ?" 
queried  the  stage  driver. 

"Sort  of.  He  says  he  lived  on  the  Big  Blue.  Our 
place  is  in  the  Grasshopper  Valley,  quite  a  piece  east. 
I  reckon  we  never  met  up." 

"No,"  ventured  Terry.    "We  left  Kansas  and  went 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY  39 

to  mining  in  the  Gregory  Diggings.  But  I've  heard  of 
you." 

From  Julesburg  the  Overland  stage  road  followed 
down  along  the  south  bank  of  the  Platte  River,  through 
southern  Nebraska,  two  hundred  miles  to  Fort  Kear- 
ney. At  Fort  Kearney  it  cut  southeast,  two  hundred 
and  fifty  more  miles  to  St.  Joe,  Missouri,  on  the  Mis- 
souri River.  St.  Joe  was  the  end  of  the  trail,  in  the 
east. 

So  Terry  had  about  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles  yet, 
of  day  and  night  travel. 

The  staunch  Concord  bowled  merrily,  with  now  and 
again  a  stretch  of  hard  pulling  in  sand  and  through 
wash-outs.  Every  ten  or  fifteen  miles  the  team  was 
changed — sometimes  there  were  four  horses  or  mules 
and  sometimes  six.  That  depended  upon  the  state  of 
the  road  ahead.  The  home  stations,  for  meals,  .were 
sandwiched  in  between  the  regular  swing  stations, 
where  the  stops  were  made  only  for  fresh  teams. 

Billy  Cody  and  the  drivers  talked  briefly,  but  what 
they  said  was  mighty  interesting.  This  night  Billy 
slept  sitting  up  on  the  driver's  box.  Terry  crawled 
back  amidst  the  baggage  on  top. 

The  road  was  fairly  level,  although  the  drivers  de- 
clared that  the  coach  was  going  down  hill,  with  every 
mile  into  the  east.  It  was  a  bare,  monotonous  road, 
but  fascinating  just  the  same.  Antelope  were  con- 
stantly in  sight,  whisking  their  white  rumps  in  flight 
or  staring  motionless.  Buffalo  were  likely  to  be  seen, 
by  good  luck.  Indians  were  possible.  And  the  wagon 


40  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

trains  of  bull-whacker  freight  outfits  and  of  emigrants 
seemed  never  ending. 

These  had  to  give  the  right-of-way  to  the  stage. 
The  stage  forged  straight  on,  regardless. 

"There  he  comes/'  remarked  Billy  Cody,  on  the 
morning  of  the  second  day,  pointing  before. 

"Who?" 

"Pony  Express." 

"He"  was  a  mere  dot,  far  down  the  road;  but  he 
enlarged  rapidly.  The  driver  and  Billy  and  Terry 
watched  intent.  Lickity-split  the  rider  came  on,  bolt- 
ing like  an  arrow  through  the  startled  emigrant  and 
freighter  outfits  in  his  path.  Their  cheers  pursued 
him. 

Now  he  was  charging  for  the  coach — his  horse  run- 
ning as  fast  as  any  deer.  Billy  and  the  driver  threw 
up  their  hand  in  greeting,  but  he  had  passed  so  quickly 
that  scarce  more  than  a  glimpse  of  him  was  to  be  had. 

However,  he  was  a  small,  slim  man,  in  tightly  fitting 
clothes,  on  a  skeleton  saddle.  He  rode  like  a  jockey. 

"That  was  Little  Yank,"  quoth  the  driver.  "He 
covers  about  a  hundred  miles,  that  lad." 

"He  was  a-going,"  said  Billy  Cody  shortly.  "Any 
man  who  rides  a  hundred  miles,  at  Pony  Express,  sure 
earns  his  money." 

"His  pay's  a  hundred  a  month,  that's  all,"  said  the 
driver.  "You  got  more  than  that,  didn't  you,  Billy?" 

"Yes ;  they  raised  me  to  a  hundred  and  fifty,  account 
the  Injuns  being  bad.  This  sort  of  riding  soon  shakes 
the  joints  loose.  One  time  I  had  to  ride  three  hundred 
and  twenty  miles  without  a  rest." 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY  41 

"So  I  heard  tell.    That's  the  record,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  There  are  men  who  could  beat 
it,  I  guess." 

At  Midway,  which  was  supposed  to  be  half  way  be- 
tween the  Missouri  River  and  Denver,  one  of  the  jol- 
liest  of  the  drivers  climbed  aboard. 

His  name  proved  to  be  Bill  Trotter,  and  he  was 
somewhat  of  a  wag.  For  as  he  drew  on  his  gloves, 
after  dinner,  he  called  the  attention  of  the  passengers 
to  the  team. 

"Do  you  know,  ladies  and  gents,  that  these  are  re- 
markable animals?" 

"How  so?"  asked  somebody.  "What's  remarkable 
about  them?" 

"You  see  that  leader  on  the/  near  side?  Just  cast 
your  eye  over  him.  I  reckon  there  are  men  who'd 
give  a  thousand  dollars  to  see  a  hoss  like  that !" 

"You  don't  say!    Why?" 

"  'Cause  they're  blind,"  answered  Bill. 

"Haw,  haw !"  roared  the  station-keeper. 

"I  never  fail  to  catch  somebody  with  that  bait,"  ob- 
served Bill,  much  satisfied.  "Pretty  soon  I'll  have  to 
think  up  a  new  one,  though.  All  'board !" 

"The  only  new  one  I  know,"  he  continued,  to  Billy 
Cody  and  Terry,  as  the  stage  leaped  forward  behind 
the  fresh  team,  "is  the  new  name  for  the  C.  O.  C.  & 
P.  P.  Did  you  ever  hear  it?  Guess  not,  'cause  I  in- 
vented it  only  yesterday." 

"No;  what  is  it,  Bill?" 

"C.  O.  C.  £  P.  P.  used  to  mean  Central  Overland 
California  &  Pike's  Peak,  but  I've  changed  that.  Now 


42  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

it  means  'Clean  Out  of  Cash  &  Poor  Pay/  We're  dis- 
tributing a  little  pome  as  we  go  along,  too.  Dunno 
who  invented  it. 


"  'On  or  about  the  first  of  May 

The  boys  would  like  to  have  their  pay; 

If  not  paid  by  that  day, 

The  stock  along  the  road  may  stray !' 

When  it  gets  to  St.  Joe  it'll  make  the  company  do  a 
bit  of  hard  thinking." 

"Are  things  so  bad  as  that,  Bill?" 

"Well,  in  my  opinion,  the  Pony  Express  is  busting 
the  stage.  The  company  spent  $100,000  before  a  hoof 
stirred,  in  buying  hosses  and  building  stations  and  all 
that;  and  now  their  expenses  run  up  to  $30,000  a 
month.  They  don't  take  in  anywhere  near  that,  and 
the  telegraph'll  be  through  to  Salt  Lake  in  a  year. 
It'll  carry  news  cheaper  and  faster  than  the  Pony  Ex- 
press." 

"Then  the  Express'll  have  to  quit,"  mused  Billy 
Cody.  "Hope  Mr.  Russell  and  Mr.  Majors  don't  go 
under,  too.  They're  fine  men.  They've  treated  me 
mighty  well." 

"Stage  employees  can't  live  on  promises,"  said  Bill 
Trotter.  "The  men  have  got  to  have  their  pay,  or 
'the  stock  along  the  road  may  stray.'  I  don't  reckon 
that  Messrs.  Russell,  Majors  &  Waddell  ever  expected 
to  cash  in  big  on  the  Pony  Express.  They  started  it 
to  show  the  Government  that  a  trail  across  continent 
could  be  kept  open  the  year  round,  so  they'd  get  the 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY  43 

mail  contract  for  the  stage  line — get  it  away  from  the 
Butterfield  Southern  route,  the  northern  route  being 
shorter.  But  I  guess  they've  bit  off  more'n  they  can 
chew.  G'lang,  you !"  And  Bill  cracked  his  lash. 

"Well,  the  Pony  Express  will  come  in  powerful 
handy  to  carry  the  war  news/'  remarked  Billy. 

And  so  it  did. 

Mr.  Trotter  had  a  long  "stage"  of  the  sixty-five 
miles  between  Midway  and  Fort  Kearney.  In  many 
stretches  the  road  was  fine,  and  he  hit  a  spanking  pace 
of  fourteen  and  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  That  was  glor- 
ious. 

The  country  was  getting  more  fertile  and  better 
settled  by  ranches.  The  meals  were  cheaper,  too;  sev- 
enty-five cents,  or  "six  bits,"  instead  of  a  dollar.  The 
swing  stations  were  still  of  hewn  or  faced  cedar  logs, 
or  of  prairie  sod  laid  like  bricks ;  but  the  home  stations 
were  changing  from  the  rough  pine  boards,  nailed  up- 
right, to  logs  hauled  from  the  bottom  lands. 

It  was  going  to  be  a  fine  moonlight  night,  until 
Driver  Trotter  cocked  his  eye  to  the  south.  All  the 
horizon  there  was  a  jetty  black,  rising  swiftly. 

"Looks  like  a  bit  of  trouble  coming,"  he  said.  "If 
you  fellows  stay  up  here  you're  liable  to  get  wet." 

"Not  for  me,"  alertly  answered  Billy  Cody.  "I'll 
sandwich  in  below." 

"All  right,"  chuckled  Driver  Trotter.  "You'll  be 
about  as  welcome  there  as  an  extra  groom  at  a  wed- 
ding. How  about  you,  youngster?" 

"I'd  rather  stay  on  the  box,"  replied  Terry. 

"You  can  crawl  in  the  boot  when  you  get  enough. 


44  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Gee  whillikens,  look  at  her  come!  Guess  I'd  better 
light  those  lamps.  Hold  the  lines  a  minute."  Bill 
jammed  on  the  brakes,  passed  the  lines  to  Terry,  and 
swung  off. 

Billy  Cody  swung  off,  too,  to  enter  the  coach.  Terry 
sat  on  the  box  with  the  lines  of  the  four-mule  team  in 
his  fingers.  While  the  lamps  were  being  lighted,  his 
mother  called  up  anxiously. 

"Terry!    Aren't  you  coming  inside?'* 

"No'm.    I'll  crawl  in  the  boot,  under  the  seat." 

"Will  you  be  safe  there?  It  looks  like  a  dreadful 
storm." 

"I'll  sit  right  atop  of  him,  ma'am,"  spoke  Driver 
Trotter.  "And  as  long  as  I  don't  melt  or  blow  away 
I'll  hold  him  down." 

The  passengers  inside  the  coach  were  hastily  buck- 
ling the  leather  curtains  and  making  snug.  Billy  Cody 
had  squeezed  in  with  a  word  of  apology.  By  the  time 
Bill  had  lighted  the  two  great  oil  lamps,  the  jetty  black 
pall  had  mounted  into  the  sky  overhead.  Sensing  the 
storm,  the  mules  had  grown  restive.  Bill  climbed  to 
the  box,  took  the  lines,  kicked  the  brake  loose,  and  the 
team  leaped  forward. 

"Six  miles  to  go  yet,  and  five  minutes  to  do  it  in. 
Whoopee !  We  don't  stand  as  good  a  show  as  a  mud- 
turtle." 

The  mules  were  lively,  but  the  storm  was  livelier. 
The  moon  had  been  swallowed  up,  and  so  had  the  first 
stars,  except  to  the  far  north.  Suddenly  the  breeze 
soughed  stronger  and  stronger — there  was  a  roar  and 
a  rattle — the  darkness  deepened — Bill  shouted  some- 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY  45 

thing  and  pulled  the  buffalo  robe  higher — and  the 
storm  arrived. 

It  came  as  a  line  of  dense  white. 

Hail! 

"Suffering  cats!"  Bill  hunched  under  his  slouch 
hat,  into  the  buffalo  robe.  The  hail  was  mixed  with 
a  deluge  of  rain,  the  darkness  was  inky.  Terry's  cour- 
age vanished,  and  he  vanished  also — slipping  from  the 
seat  and  boring  his  way  behind  the  curtain,  into  the 
boot  underneath  the  seat. 

Already  the  mules  were  plunging  and  cavorting,  as 
the  hail  stones  stung  them.  The  stones  were  as  large 
as  hazel  nuts  and  musket  balls.  They  arrived  with  the 
speed  of  musket  balls,  too,  driven  by  a  fierce  gale. 
They  drummed  like  a  trip  hammer  upon  the  coach  side 
and  top. 

Curled  in  the  close  boot,  Terry  listened.  He  was 
obliged  to  brace  himself,  for  the  coach  was  rocking  and 
swaying  and  tilting.  He  could  not  see  an  inch;  he 
could  only  feel,  and  hear,  and  guess. 

He  guessed  that  Driver  Trotter  was  having  a  hard 
time.  By  the  way  in  which  the  coach  jolted,  the  mules 
were  frantic.  The  wind  blew  with  force  enough  to 
tilt  the  coach  on  two  wheels.  He  was  tossed  and 
shaken,  and  several  times  he  was  wellnigh  thrown 
through  the  curtain. 

Wow!  What  was  that?  Down  with  a  thump 
lurched  the  coach  and  went  bumpity-bamp,  careening 
frightfully.  Out  slid  Terry,  clutching  in  vain,  until 
he  grabbed  Bill's  braced  legs.  He  just  managed  to 
save  himself  from  pitching  overboard  entirely. 


46  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Wheel  off!"  gasped  Driver  Trotter,  above  him. 
"Brake  busted.  If  I  could  only  get  to  those  mules* 
heads " 

The  passengers  inside  were  shouting  wildly.  Terry 
did  not  pause  an  instant.  Something  had  to  be  done, 
or  the  coach  would  capsize.  The  mules  seemed  to  be 
running  in  a  circle,  with  the  axle  dragging. 

He  squirmed  from  Bill's  legs,  and  dived  blindly  for 
the  ground;  landed  sprawling,  amidst  the  hail  and 
rain  and  darkness.  The  coach  lights  were  gone,  their 
glass  shattered  by  the  hailstones.  Where  he  was, 
when  he  landed,  Terry  did  not  exactly  know;  but  he 
picked  himself  up,  and  ran,  staggering  and  feeling,  for 
the  mules. 

That  was  dangerous,  too ;  he  stood  a  good  chance  of 
being  knocked  over  and  stepped  on.  First  he  missed 
the  whole  team.  Then,  blundering  about,  he  collided 
with  a  mule  and  was  sent  headlong  into  the  mud. 
Whew !  Try  again.  Next  time  he  hung  on ;  and,  flung 
hither-thither,  he  worked  along,  hanging  to  the  har- 
ness, until  he  felt  the  bit. 

Hurrah !  There  he  was,  at  the  bits  of  the  lead  team. 
He  clung  fast,  sometimes  with  his  legs  swinging.  He 
had  lost  his  hat ;  the  hail  and  rain  lashed  his  head  and 
face,  but  the  mules  did  not  shake  him  off.  The  team 
slowed ;  he  pulled  them  down  to  a  standstill. 

"I  got 'em!" 

"Hey!    Are  you  all  right?"  yelled  Bill. 

"I  got 'em,  Bill!" 

"Hang  hard,  then." 

As  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  storm  left.     The 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY 


47 


stars  shone  in  the  sky,  behind  the  retreating  line  of 
black.  The  mules  waited,  hunched  and  trembling,  for 
further  orders.  Driver  Bill  climbed  down  from  his 
box;  the  coach  door  opened  and  the  passengers  boiled 
out. 

"You  can  let  loose,"  said  Driver  Bill  to  Terry. 
"Durn  that  brake.  One  more  turn  and  they'd  have 
upset  us.  Reckon  you  saved  the  bacon.  I'd  like  to 
catch  the  man  who  left  that  nut  loose." 

Billy  Cody  was  the  first  of  the  passengers. 

"Where's  your  wheel?  That's  a  nice  ride  to  give 
people  who  are  trying  to  sleep!  I've  been  trying  to 
get  out  for  half  an  hour,  but  the  door  was  full  of  legs 
and  heads." 

"Anybody  hurt,  inside?" 

"No.    Anybody  hurt  out  here?" 

"Terry!  Where  are  you?  Are  you  hurt?"  That 
was  Terry's  mother. 

"No,  ma'am.     Not  a  bit.    Just  muddy,  is  all." 

"Come  here  and  let  me  see." 

"It's  only  mud,  Ma.    We've  got  to  find  the  wheel." 

"Wait  till  I  light  one  of  these  here  lamps,"  quoth 
Driver  Bill.  "And  let  me  tell  you,  ladies  and  gents, 
that  if  this  lad  hadn't  hung  onto  these  mules'  heads, 
you'd  all  been  into  the  mud.  He's  pure  grit.  He  was 
off  quicker'n  Jack  Robinson,  and  did  as  well  as  Billy 
Cody  could." 

After  using  several  matches,  Bill  lighted  one  of  the 
lamps.  Terry  and  the  men  scouted  about  for  the  wheel 
and  nut.  They  found  both  by  following  the  coach 
tracks  around  and  around. 


48  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

The  coach  was  unloaded  and  hoisted  to  a  level,  and 
blocked,  to  receive  the  wheel  again. 

"We'll  have  to  stop  awhile  at  the  station  ahead," 
quoth  Driver  Bill.  "This  axle  needs  straightening. 
It's  cocked  up  like  a  pug  nose." 

Unloading  the  coach,  adjusting  the  wheel,  and  load- 
ing the  coach,  took  considerable  time,  and  also  consid- 
erable work.  Now  Terry  was  warm,  even  if  muddy. 

"Won't  you  ride  inside,  Terry?"  queried  his  mother. 
"We'll  make  room." 

"Can't  I  stay  on  the  box?    I'll  wrap  up." 

"Oh,  Terry!" 

"Let  him  stay,  ma'am,  if  you  please,"  proposed  Bill. 
"I'll  give  him  the  bufFlo  robe.  I  need  a  good  man 
alongside  me.  'Tisn't  far  to  the  station." 

Words  like  that  would  warm  any  boy.  The  buffalo 
robe  did  the  rest.  While  the  coach,  lumbering  lamely, 
splashed  on,  Terry  began  to  doze.  By  the  time  the 
station  was  reached,  he  could  scarcely  open  his  eyes. 
The  station  agent  hustled  to  prepare  space  for  shake- 
downs on  the  floor  and  in  the  stable.  Nobody  waited 
for  coffee  or  anything  else,  but  all  went  to  bed,  while 
the  coach  was  being  repaired. 

Virgie  and  Terry's  mother  and  the  other  women  had 
the  best  places.  Mr.  Richards  slept  in  one  spot  and 
Terry  in  another.  They  all  were  glad  to  be  here. 

After  a  rough  but  ready  breakfast,  Bill  Trotter 
drove  them  on,  through  a  fine  morning,  to  Fort  Kear- 
ney, in  southeastern  Nebraska  Territory.  This  was 
almost  two-thirds  of  the  distance  on  the  Overland  Trail 
from  Denver. 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY  49 

Here  the  trail  split;  one  fork  followed  down  along 
the  Platte,  northeasterly,  for  Omaha.  That  was  an 
emigrant  trail.  The  other  fork,  which  was  the  main 
stage  road,  left  the  Platte  and  dipped  southeastwardly 
into  Kansas,  for  the  end  of  the  line  at  St.  Joseph  across 
the  Missouri  River. 

Bill  Trotter  quit  at  Fort  Kearney  to  lie  by.  A 
driver  by  the  name  of  Bob  Hodge  took  the  lines.  Bob 
Hodge  proved  to  be  an  interesting  man,  too. 

Withal,  he  was  a  dashing  sort  of  a  dandy.  The  har- 
ness of  his  team  was  jingly  with  many  ivory  rings,  and 
was  studded  with  brass.  The  stock  of  his  whip  was 
silver  inlaid,  and  the  lash  was  silk-tasseled.  He  wore 
an  ornamental  fringed  buckskin  suit,  and  carried  a  cop- 
per bugle. 

Along  the  way,  he  blew  at  everything  and  every- 
body sighted;  and  when  approaching  a  station  he 
lilted  a  gay  tune,  which  he  said  was  "Come  Out  of  the 
Wilderness. "  He  much  amused  Virgie,  who  finally 
had  changed  from  the  inside  seat  to  a  top  seat  amidst 
the  luggage.  That  was  because  she  was  getting  near 
Kansas,  and  felt  safe. 

Billy  Cody  was  still  aboard — on  the  box  again,  with 
Terry  and  the  driver. 

At  Rock  Creek  swing  station  he  seemed  to  know  the 
station-keeper  very  well.  The  station-keeper  was  a 
lithe,  graceful,  quick  man,  six  feet  tall,  and  sinewy, 
with  handsome  face  and  long  curling  golden-brown 
hair. 

He  limped  as  he  moved;  appeared  to  be  off  a  sick 


50  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

bed.  His  cheek  and  forehead  bore  large  scars,  freshly 
healed. 

He  wore  two  ivory-handled  revolvers. 

"Hello,  Bill." 

"Hello,  Billy.     Coming  home?" 

"Yes.     How  you  feeling  now?" 

"Chipper  as  an  Injun  at  a  dog  feast." 

"What's  the  news,  Bill?" 

"Well,  plenty  of  work  for  good  men  and  true.  How 
far  you  going?" 

"To  Leavenworth.    I  mean  to  enlist." 

"All  right.    I'll  see  you  later,  I  reckon." 

"That's  'Wild  Bill'  Hickok,"  remarked  Billy  Cody 
to  Terry,  when  the  coach  had  started  on.  "The  best 
friend  I've  got,  and  the  best  pistol  shot,  with  either 
hand,  on  the  plains." 

"Has  he  been  in  a  fight?" 

"You  might  call  it  that.  He's  the  man  who  licked 
the  McCandlass  gang  last  winter.  There  were  only  ten 
of  'em  who  tried  to  lift  the  stage  stock  at  the  station, 
when  Bill  was  alone.  They  fetched  their  bowie-knives 
and  pistols,  but  after  the  tussel  there  were  only  two  of 
'em— and  Bill.  He  was  born  'James';  'Wild  Bill'  is 
his  name,  since  the  fracas.  I  guess  you  don't  live  far 
beyond  here.  He's  station  agent  at  Rock  Creek,  and  if 
ever  you  folks  need  a  friend,  you  send  word  to  him. 
He'll  come,  if  he  has  to  crawl." 

"We  sure  will,"  promised  Terry. 

At  Rock  Creek  station  the  stage  had  crossed  into 
northern  Kansas. 


TERRY  SAVES  THE  DAY  51 

"Next  station  is  ours,  Terry,"  called  up  Terry's 
father. 

So  it  was.  They  piled  off  and  tumbled  out.  Terry 
waved  good-bye  to  Billy  Cody — who  was  to  be  known, 
some  day,  as  Buffalo  Bill.  Mr.  Richards  hired  a  horse 
to  go  down  to  the  ranch.  Early  in  the  morning  he  was 
back  again  with  a  wagon,  and  they  all  rode  "home." 


CHAPTER  V 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT 


THE  President  had  called  for  volunteers  to  serve 
three  years.  Father  Richards  was  likely  to  be  gone 
a  long  time,  so,  of  course,  he  felt  anxious  to  get  Mother 
Richards  and  Terry  and  Virgie  well  settled.  But  the 
ranch  had  been  abused;  it  did  not  look  even  livable. 
Neighbors  were  few  and  far  between. 

Father  Richards  found  a  way,  though.  From  a 
trip  to  Leavenworth  he  hurried  back,  much  pleased. 

"I  think  I've  arranged  things  nicely,"  he  announced. 
"I've  traded  for  a  half  section  north.  The  stage  road 
runs  right  through  the  end  of  it.  How  would  you  like 
to  live  on  the  stage  road  and  run  a  store?" 

"Ralph!"  gasped  Terry's  mother.  "Are  you  in 
earnest?" 

But  Terry  cheered,  and  Virgie  clapped  her  hands. 
Who  wouldn't  like  to  have  the  Overland  Stage  road 
pass  one's  door,  and  the  coaches  stop  there  sometimes, 
bringing  all  kinds  of  people  from  east  and  west? 

"Yes,  I'm  in  earnest.  You  can't  stay  here.  This 
country  will  be  full  of  raiders  and  bush-whackers.  On 
the  stage  road  you'll  be  safer,  and  have  plenty  of  com- 
pany. There's  a  fairly  good  house  and  stable,  and  a 

52 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT  53 

sort  of  store;  chickens  and  a  couple  of  cows;  and  a 
swing  station  down  the  road  to  the  east.  I  thought 
that  if  we  put  in  a  few  more  groceries,  then  you  and 
Terry  and  Virgie  might  sell  them,  and  butter  and  eggs 
and  garden  stuff  to  the  emigrants;  and  no  doubt  the 
stages  would  let  their  passengers  stop  off  a  minute  or 
two,  now  and  again.  Then  I'd  feel  safer  about  you, 
and  wouldn't  worry." 

"We'll  try,"  Mother  Richards  bravely  promised. 

They  moved  to  the  new  place  the  very  next  day. 
This  week  Father  Richards  left  them.  He  had  en- 
listed, and  was  due  to  report. 

Although  they  missed  him  very  much,  they  did  not 
have  time  for  being  lonesome.  What  with  tending  the 
store  and  the  garden  and  the  cows  and  the  chickens, 
and  making  butter  and  answering  the  questions  of  the 
travelers,  there  was  work  from  early  morning  until 
late  at  night. 

It  was  a  lively  road.  ^"Overlanders,"  or  emigrant 
outfits,  of  white-hooded  wagons  drawn  by  one  or  two 
spans  of  oxen,  and  freighters,  with  huge  canvas- 
topped  Conestogas  and  teams  of  six,  eight  and  ten 
"bulls"  guided  by  booted  "bull-whackers,"  were  con- 
stantly passing,  west  bound. 

The  Pony  Express  riders,  one  from  the  east  and  one 
from  the  west,  dashed  along,  right  by  the  house  and 
store,  every  day.  They  appeared  precisely  on  the  dot 
— you  might  set  the  clock  by  them.  Virgie  always 
watched  for  them,  and  waved,  and  they  waved  back. 
At  the  stage  swing  station,  a  few  miles  east,  Terry 
learned  who  they  were  on  this  run;  and  several  times 


54  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

he  was  at  the  station  when  they  changed  horses  in  a 
twinkling. 

There  was  a  dusty  Overland  coach  early  in  the 
morning,  from  the  Missouri  River,  and  another,  at 
noon,  from  Denver  and  Salt  Lake.  The  drivers  back 
and  forth  on  the  run  were  "Teddy"  Nichols  and  Lew 
Hill,  pleasant  men,  both. 

When  they  had  time  to  spare  they  were  apt  to  stop 
at  the  "Richards'  place"  and  allow  the  passengers  five 
or  ten  minutes  for  buying  things  to  eat.  They  and  the 
passengers  made  much  of  Virgie,  because  she  was  a 
girl. 

The  emigrants  and  freighters  sometimes  bought 
stuff,  also;  and  by  selling  butter  and  eggs  and  vege- 
tables and  groceries,  the  "Richards'  place"  did  finely. 

Terry  grew  to  know  the  Pony  Express  riders  and 
the  stage  drivers  so  well  by  name  or  by  sight  that  he 
rather  felt  as  though  he  was  a  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  man 
himself.  When  he  was  at  the  swing  station,  east,  once 
in  a  while  he  was  permitted  to  hand  up  the  bunch  of 
lines  to  the  driver;  and  usually  he  was  given  a  free 
ride  home.  Having  made  the  Overland  trip  from 
Denver,  on  the  driver's  box,  and  done  "as  well  as 
Billy  Cody,"  in  the  night  when  the  wheel  came  off,  he 
felt  like  a  veteran. 

"Wild  Bill"  Hickok  stopped  off,  once  or  twice,  on 
his  way  from  or  to  Rock  Creek.  A  very  quiet,  polite 
man  was  this  "Wild  Bill,"  even  though  a  terrific 
fighter.  He  said  that  Billy  Cody  had  asked  him  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  Richards  "outfit." 

"I'm  about  to  leave  for  Denver,  and  get  a  spell  of 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT  55 

mountain  air  to  set  me  on  my  feet,"  added  "Wild  Bill." 
"But  if  I  can  be  of  any  service,  just  send  the  word 
along.  Any  friend  of  Billy  Cody's  is  a  friend  of 
mine." 

"There  won't  be  any  danger  around  here,  will 
there?"  asked  Terry's  mother. 

"I  wouldn't  say  no,  ma'am.  The  war's  liable  to  give 
a  lot  of  lawless  characters  a  good  excuse  to  turn 
themselves  loose  on  their  own  account.  Just  keep  a 
stiff  upper  lip;  they're  mostly  cowards,  and  if  any  of 
them  start  to  trouble  you,  you've  got  a  right  gritty 
boy,  here,  to  act  a§  your  man.  Can  you  handle  a  six- 
shooter,  youngster?" 

"A  little,  but  I'm  not  much  good, ''  confessed  Terry. 

"Here's  my  gun.  Suppose  you  show  how  good. 
That  tin  can  yonder  needs  a  hole  right  through  the 
end." 

While  Virgie  held  her  ears,  Terry  squinted  long  and 
blazed  away.  He  hit  the  ground,  but  missed  the  can. 
"Wild  Bill"  laughed  easily. 

"If  that  can  had  been  alive  it  would  have  died  of 
old  age  while  you  were  aiming,"  he  said.  "If  it  had 
been  a  man,  he'd  have  walked  up  on  you  and  hit  you 
over  the  head  with  a  club.  May  I  give  your  boy  a  few 
lessons,  ma'am?" 

"But  I  don't  want  him  to  be  a  shooter,"  objected 
Terry's  mother.  "A  gun  is  too  dangerous.  He  might 
hurt  himself  or  somebody  else." 

"In  my  opinion,  if  you'll  pardon  me,  ma'am,  for 
speaking  it,"  politely  answered  "Wild  Bill,"  "every 
boy  and  man  ought  to  know  how  to  shoot,  and  shoot 


56  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

hard.  There  come  times  when  we  may  have  to  protect 
ourselves  and  like  as  not  other  people,  to  the  limit, 
and  when  a  gun  is  the  only  argument.  I  reckon  this 
boy  can  lick  his  weight  and  a  bit  over,  and  no  gentle- 
man would  lay  hands  on  him.  But  the  country's  full 
of  bullies  and  bruisers,  and  a  gun  is  the  thing  they 
respect.  It  makes  the  runt  who  can  shoot  straight 
as  big  as  the  biggest  two-hander  that  ever  wore  boots. 
So  I  guess  I'd  better  give  your  boy  a  few  lessons. 
Some  day  you  may  thank  me.  Anyway,  they  won't 
do  him  harm." 

"Now,"  continued  "Wild  Bill"  to  Terry,  "y°u>11 
never  see  a  good  quick  shot  with  a  pistol  taking  aim. 
He  has  his  aim  taken  before  his  gun  is  out,  just  like 
you  point  your  finger.  He  shoots  with  both  eyes  open, 
and  he  shoots  by  feel,  and  the  bullet  goes  to  the  spot 
that  he's  looking  at.  It's  all  the  same  as  throwing  a 
rock.  While  your  pistol's  coming  up  out  of  the  scab- 
bard or  wherever  you  carry  it,  you  want  to  make  up 
your  mind  where  you're  going  to  plant  the  bullet,  and 
the  instant  you  get  the  feel  let  drive.  Don't  wait. 
When  you're  ready  to  shoot,  then  shoot.  And  don't 
shoot  till  you  are  ready.  But  the  quicker  you're  ready 
the  better." 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  show  me,"  invited  Terry. 

"Is  there  any  little  job  of  shooting  that  you'd  like 
to  suggest,  ma'am?"  queried  "Wild  Bill"  to  Mother 
Richards. 

"Yes,"  said  Mother  Richards  promptly.  "I  wish 
you'd  shoot  that  rooster.  He's  running  wild — he 
chases  all  the  other  roosters  and  is  only  fit  to  be  eaten, 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT  57 

but  we  can't  catch  him.  Can  you  kill  him  without 
hurting  him?" 

"I  can  cut  his  head  off,  ma'am,  the  same  as  you 
would  with  an  axe." 

"From  here  ?"  demanded  Terry. 

The  rooster  (a  nuisance)  was  fully  thirty  yards 
away,  strutting  about  across  the  road.  A  smile  on  his 
lips,  "Wild  Bill"  eyed  him  a  moment,  waiting.  Virgie 
held  her  ears  again.  The  rooster  halted,  with  head 
up ;  out  from  his  left  holster  "Wild  Bill"  whipped  his 
other  revolver,  barely  leveled  it  from  his  thigh,  and 
fired — "Bang!"  The  rooster  collapsed  and  went  flut- 
tering over  and  over,  without  a  head. 

"I  declare!"  exclaimed  Mother  Richards.  "I  be- 
lieve you  did !  We've  been  wanting  that  rooster  killed 
for  ever  so  long." 

"Gee  whillikens!"  stammered  Terry.  "How'd  you 
doit?" 

"I'd  made  up  my  mind,  and  the  bullet  went  where  I 
told  it  to  go.  Savvy?  While  your  mother's  cleaning 
the  chicken,  let's  spend  a  few  rounds." 

"Wild  Bill"  was  a  wizard.  He  could  hit  a  silver 
dime  at  twenty  yards,  and  drive  a  cork  into  a  bottle 
without  breaking  the  neck,  so  that  the  compressed  air 
blew  the  bottom  out  of  the  bottle  itself.  But  he  had 
Terry  do  most  of  the  shooting,  while  he  coached. 

When  he  rode  away,  he  left  the  ivory-handled  re- 
volver for  Terry  to  practice  with  until  he,  "Wild  Bill," 
came  back  again.  And  Terry  did  practice,  in  spare 
moments,  so  that  the  "Richards'  place"  sounded  like  a 
Fourth  of  July,  old-style. 


58  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

He  didn't  equal  "Wild  Bill"— who,  as  Billy  Cody 
and  others  said,  was  the  best  pistol  shot  on  the  plains, 
and  moreover  rarely  shot  except  in  self  defense ;  but 
he  got  used  to  the  noise  and  to  drawing  quickly. 

"If  'Wild  Bill'  hadn't  been  a  crack  shot,  those  ten 
bush-whackers  would  have  killed  him  and  stolen  all 
the  stage  stock,"  he  explained,  to  excuse  himself  to  his 
mother  and  Virgie.  "The  same  thing  might  happen  to 
us,  while  pa  isn't  here." 

Meanwhile,  events  occurred. 

First,  in  July,  some  big  news  broke.  The  Overland 
stages  were  to  run  clear  through  to  California.  Yes, 
sir.  The  Pony  Express  had  shown  that  the  route  was 
all  right,  winter  and  summer;  and  now  Russell, 
Majors  &  Waddell,  who  owned  the  Pony  Express  and 
the  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  stage  line  to  Salt  Lake,  had  taken 
the  Government  mail  contract  for  across  continent, 
from  St.  Joe  on  the  Missouri  to  Placerville  beyond 
the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains  in  California,  at  $1,000,- 
ooo  a  year  for  four  years ;  distance,  i  ,920  miles ;  time, 
seventeen  days  and  a  quarter;  fare,  $225.  The  "Pike's 
Peak"  part  of  the  name  was  dropped.  The  name  to  be 
used  was  "Central  Overland  California  Route." 

A  coach  left  either  end  every  day.  That  was  a  tre- 
mendous trip.  From  St.  Joe  the  passengers  rode  to 
Salt  Lake  by  the  C.  O.  C.  &  P.  P.  Express  Company 
line;  from  Salt  Lake  to  Virginia  City  in  Nevada  they 
rode  by  the  Overland  Mail  Company  line,  which  be- 
fore the  war  had  run  from  St.  Louis  through  New 
Mexico  and  Arizona  to  San  Diego  of  California;  from 
Virginia  City  they  rode  into  northern  California  by 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT  59 

the  famous  Pioneer  Stage  line  of  the  gold-seekers' 
trail. 

The  through  trip  seemed  to  increase  travel.  The 
coaches  that  stopped  at  the  "Richards'  place"  were 
always  full.  There  were  people  from  the  far  east  and 
people  from  the  far  west.  Toward  the  last  of  July 
an  especially  odd  set  stopped. 

They  were  three,  by  themselves,  on  a  coach  half 
rilled  inside  with  mail  sacks,  and  piled  high  fore  and 
aft  with  other  sacks.  They  came  in  gaily  riding  atop, 
in  their  red  flannel  undershirts,  with  their  hats  tied 
on  by  bandanna  handkerchiefs  under  their  chins,  and 
their  stockinged  feet  hanging  over  the  rail,  and  each 
man  puffing  a  pipe. 

One  of  them,  a  bushy-black-haired  man  with  an  un- 
ruly straggling  mustache  and  a  pair  of  twinkling  eyes, 
hastily  donned  his  coat  and  clambered  down.  He 
untied  his  handkerchief  and  bared  his  head  to  Terry's 
mother. 

"Madam,  we  are  traveling  with  four  pounds  of 
United  States  laws,  six  pounds  of  unabridged  diction- 
ary, and  five  pounds  of  smoking  tobacco,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  anything  a  little  less  dry?" 

"We've  got  some  soda  water,"  piped  Virgie,  excited. 

"How  much?"  queried  the  bushy-headed  man. 

"Two  cases,"  answered  Terry's  mother. 

"Taken!"  cheered  the  bushy-headed  man.  "One 
case  for  inside  passage  and  the  other  for  outside. 
Throw  down  my  boots,"  he  called  up.  "Throw  down 
yours,  too."  And  he  added,  to  Terry's  mother: 
"When  I  tackle  a  case  of  soda  water  I  always  like  to 


60  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

stand  in  plenty  of  boots.  Then  none  of  the  stuff  gets 
away  from  me.J> 

Down  piled  the  two  others ;  and  amidst  much  hilar- 
ity the  three  entered  the  store.  Driver  Teddy 
Nichols,  waiting,  scratched  his  head  and  grinned  at 
Terry. 

"That's  the  greatest  outfit  I've  had  yet.  They've 
been  riding  all  in  their  underclothes,  on  top,  except 
when  I  told  Jem  there  was  a  woman  ahead,  by  the 
road.  They  say  they're  privileged  characters,  because 
they're  appearing  'next  to  reading  matter.'  Haw! 
haw!  I've  got  twenty-five  hundred  pounds  of  three 
days'  delayed  mail  on  that  coach — twenty-five  hun- 
dred pounds.  They  sleep  on  it,  half-way  to  the  roof, 
and  the  dictionary  barks  them  considerable  when  it 
flies  around  in  the  dark.  Yes,  sir ;  they're  taking  a  big 
dictionary  and  some  volumes  of  United  States  statutes, 
and  a  heap  of  smoking  tobacco,  a  little  pistol  with  a 
ball  'bout  the  size  of  a  split  pea,  and  another  with  six 
barrels  that  all  go  off  at  once. 

"The  fellow  who  got  down  first  is  named  Clemens 
— Sam  Clemens.  The  slight-built  fellow  is  his  brother. 
He's  new  secretary  of  Nevady  Territory.  That's 
where  they're  both  going.  Third  fellow's  name  is 
Bemis.  He's  booked  through.  Oh,  they're  a  lively 
bunch.  But  Sam's  the  worst — up  to  all  sorts  of 
tricks." 

The  three  travelers  came  out,  lugging  all  the  soda 
water  that  they  could  carry  in  their  arms  and  pockets. 
This  they  stowed  aboard.  The  man  named  Sam 
Clemens  noted  Terry's  ivory-handled  revolver — 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT  61 

"Wild  Bill's"  trained  gun.  Terry  wore  this  all  day,  in 
regular  frontier  fashion. 

"Can  you  do  execution  with  that?"  demanded  Mr. 
Clemens. 

"Pretty  good.    I'm  learning,"  replied  Terry. 

"Then  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Mr.  Clemens,  in 
sly,  confidential  tone.  "You  see  that  man  who's  not 
quite  so  handsome  as  I  am  ?  Not  my  brother,  but  the 
other  man.  You  trade  guns  with  him.  That  gun  he 
has  is  a  humdinger.  He  shot  at  the  two-spot  of  spades 
with  it,  and  it  fetched  a  mule.  All  you  have  to  do  is 
to  turn  it  loose  on  the  landscape  and  follow  it  with  a 
wagon  to  collect  the  damages  before  somebody  else  is 
there  to  collect  them  first." 

"Haw  haw!"  laughed  Driver  Nichols. 

The  stage  rolled  on,  with  the  three  men  atop  sing- 
ing cheerfully  and  each  waving  a  bottle  of  the  soda 
water. 

They  got  through  all  right ;  for  in  after  years  Sam 
Clemens,  the  joker,  took  the  name  of  Mark  Twain  and 
wrote  a  book  about  his  trip. 

There  were  other  interesting  travelers,  too,  almost 
daily.  And  in  October  who  should  come  through, 
from  the  west,  but  Bill  Trotter.  He  saw  Terry,  and 
whooped  gladly  at  him. 

"Where  you  going,  Bill?" 

"Back  to  the  States  for  a  high  old  time.  Hooray ! 
I  wondered  if  I'd  meet  up  with  you." 

Bill  stopped  over,  one  stage,  to  visit. 

"You  see,  the  stage  company's  been  saving  up  my 
money  for  me,  and  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  spend  it," 


62  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

he  explained.  "That  poem  didn't  work,  exactly.  But 
now  the  boys  are  all  going  to  get  paid  off,  'cause  the 
old  company's  busted,  just  as  I  told  you  it  would,  and 
the  new  boss  is  a  ring-tail  snorter." 

"Who  is  it,  Bill?" 

"Name's  Holladay — Ben  Holladay.  He  made  his 
pile  trading  out  of  Missouri  across  the  plains,  and 
built  himself  a  sort  of  palace  out  yonder  in  New  York, 
but  the  boys  who  know  him  say  he's  all  right.  He's 
been  lending  to  the  Overland,  and  now  he's  taken  it 
over,  lock,  stock  and  barrel.  They  say  he'll  make  a 
gilt-edge  road  out  of  it.  He's  going  to  refit  it  with 
new  hosses  and  coaches  and  branch  out  generally. 
He's  a  one-hundred-cents-on-the-dollar  kind  of  a  man. 
The  Pony  Express  is  about  to  quit,  so  he  won't  have 
to  carry  that  on  his  shoulders." 

"When  will  it  quit?" 

"This  month,  sure.  The  telegraph  line's  almost  to 
Salt  Lake.  As  soon  as  connection's  made  there,  the 
Express  won't  have  any  reason  to  live.  The  stages 
carry  most  of  the  mail,  anyhow,  and  the  telegraph 
will  take  care  of  the  dispatches." 

When  Driver  Trotter  left,  the  next  day,  he  an- 
nounced that  for  one  thing  he  intended  to  celebrate  by 
buying  out  a  whole  playhouse  and  having  the  show 
all  to  himself.  And  that  was  exactly  what  he  did,  in 
Atchison. 

At  the  end  of  the  month  the  new  stage-line  owner, 
Mr.  Holladay,  whirled  past  the  ranch,  going  like  a 
streak.  He  was  riding  in  a  special  coach,  with  a  negro 


"WILD  BILL"  HELPS  OUT  63 

servant  and  the  general  agent,  Mr.  Otis,  also  of  New 
York,  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  Teddy  Nichols  said 
that  they  left  a  streak  of  dust  clear  across  to  the 
mountains. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    BREAK-UP   ALL   'ROUND 

"TERRY!    Oh,  Terry!    Come  quick!" 

The  winter  had  passed;  it  was  an  April  day,  and 
that  was  his  mother's  voice  calling  with  sudden  appeal 
from  the  store  doorway. 

The  west-bound  stage  had  left  a  small  package  of 
mail,  from  the  way-sack.  The  stage  carried  a  number 
of  mail  sacks :  for  Denver,  for  Salt  Lake,  for  Nevada, 
for  Sacramento  and  San  Francisco  of  California. 
And  there  was  a  way-sack,  to  be  opened  at  several  of 
the  post-offices  between. 

The  "Kansas"  package  left  at  the  ranch  did  not 
amount  to  much,  in  size,  but  it  was  important  be- 
cause it  usually  brought  war  news  in  the  shape  of 
soldiers'  letters  and  of  papers.  Terry  had  lingered  a 
moment  to  see  whether  there  was  a  letter  from  his 
father;  but  there  wasn't,  this  time,  so  he  had  hustled 
out  again  to  finish  up  a  job  of  work. 

Now  his  mother  called  him  as  if  she  was  frightened. 
He  bolted  to  her. 

"Your  father's  been  wounded,  Terry!"  she  cried. 
"I've  a  letter  about  it — from  a  nurse  in  a  hospital. 
He's  near  Washington.  What  shall  we  do?" 


A  BREAK-UP  ALL  'ROUND  65 

Virgie  began  to  cry.     Terry  felt  himsejf  turn  pale. 

"Is  he  badly  hurt,  Ma?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  The  letter  doesn't  say  how  badly. 
But  somebody  else  wrote  it,  you  see.  He  couldn't. 
What  had  we  better  do?  Oh,  Terry!  We  ought  to 
be  with  him." 

"You  go,  Ma." 

"And  leave  you  here,  alone?" 

"Of  course.     I  can  get  along  fine/' 

"I'll  stay,  too,"  Virgie  spoke  up.  "And  help.  I'll 
tend  the  store  and  the  chickens." 

Virgie  was  a  little  brick. 

"You  two  children!  How  could  you  manage? 
Wouldn't  you  be  afraid  ?" 

"Aw,  we  aren't  children,  are  we,  Virgie!"  objected 
Terry.  "We  can  do  everything,  as  well  as  anybody 
else.  There's  only  the  cows  and  the  chickens  and  the 
butter  and  the  store.  The  mail's  nothing.  And  Virgie 
and  I  can  cook  enough  for  us.  What's  there  to  be 
afraid  of,  either?  I'm  as  good  as  a  man,  with  'Wild 
Bill's'  gun.  I  can  hit  a  tin  can  every  time,  as  quick 
as  a  wink,  with  either  hand — except  when  sometimes 
I  miss.  You  go,  will  you?  Pa'll  get  well,  if  you 
nurse  him.  I  know  he  will.  Don't  you  worry  about 
Virgie  and  me.  There  won't  any  bush-whackers 
tackle  us!" 

"No.  Terry'd  shoot  'em  and  I'd  hit  'em  with  a 
broom,"  declared  Virgie. 

"Well,  I  ought  to  go.  I'll  try  not  to  worry.  If 
bush-whackers  or  other  bad  characters  come,  you  let 


66  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

them  do  as  they  please.  I'd  rather  they'd  take  every- 
thing than  have  you  or  Virgie  hurt." 

"Huh !"  scoffed  Terry.  "They  won't  come  up  this 
far.  'Wild  Bill'  cleaned  'em  out  too  slick  when  they 
tried  Rock  Creek.  If  they  do  come,  and  see  me  with 
'Wild  Bill's'  pistol,  they'll  run  scooting." 

So  go  his  mother  did,  the  very  next  day,  by  east- 
bound  stage,  to  Atchison  on  the  Missouri  River,  where 
the  railroad  began. 

Were  Father  Richards  not  lying  wounded  some- 
where, and  Mother  Richards  hurrying  to  his  side,  it 
would  have  been  fun  to  be  left  for  a  while  as  boss  of 
the  ranch  station:  storekeeper,  postmaster,  and  every- 
thing. 

The  Pony  Express  had  quit,  but  the  stages  passed 
quite  regularly,  there  were  the  freighters  and  the 
emigrants,  and  the  road  was  in  use  a  great  part  of 
the  day. 

Ben  Holladay,  the  stage  king  (that  was  what  people 
called  him),  had  put  a  lot  of  vim  into  the  Overland. 
"Overland  Stage  Line"  he  had  renamed  it.  Bunches 
of  fresh  horses,  the  best  to  be  bought,  were  being 
sent  out  to  the  stations;  new  stations  were  being  lo- 
cated, brand  new  coaches,  painted  red,  larger  than  the 
old  ones,  trundled  through  every  day  or  two;  and  the 
old  coaches  were  being  painted  red  also.  Atchison, 
on  the  west  side  of  the  Missouri,  below  St.  Joe,  was 
now  the  starting  point. 

It  was  said  that  he  was  spending  thousands  of  dol- 
lars, and  was  planning  branch  lines  into  the  north  and 
elsewhere.  He  made  another  trip  of  inspection,  this 


A  BREAK-UP  ALL  'ROUND  67 

spring — in  a  special  coach,  with  his  negro  servant  and 
Mr.  George  K.  Otis,  the  general  superintendent.  Trav- 
eled full  speed  again;  went  clear  through  to  California 
in  only  a  little  over  fourteen  days — three  days  less 
than  schedule.  That  was  his  style.  Horses  and 
drivers  had  to  be  ready. 

The  Indians  had  not  bothered  the  line  much,  yet, 
during  the  war.  Denver  was  safe,  too,  so  far.  Harry 
was  still  riding  express,  to  bring  the  newspaper  dis- 
patches taken  off  the  wire  at  Julesburg.  George's 
father  had  enlisted  with  Colorado  troops,  and  had  been 
in  a  battle  in  New  Mexico,  to  stop  the  Confederate 
soldiers  from  marching  farther  north. 

South  of  Kansas,  also,  there  had  been  some  right- 
ing, but  nobody  expected  that  the  Confederate  soldiers 
would  be  able  to  get  very  far  into  Kansas  itself.  The 
main  danger  was  from  the  bush-whackers.  These 
were  lawless  bands  who  seemed  more  bent  upon  steal- 
ing stock  and  damaging  property  than  upon  defending 
any  flag.  They  roamed  about,  regardless,  but  they  had 
not  raided  the  stage  line  since  "Wild  Bill"  had  settled 
their  hash,  at  Rock  Creek. 

Terry  and  Virgie  were  too  busy  to  waste  thought 
by  fearing  "bush-whackers."  They  were  doing  the 
best  they  could,  and  holding  up  their  end  in  fine  shape. 
One  letter  had  come  from  Mother  Richards;  she  had 
arrived  at  Father  Richard's  bedside,  and  he  was  very 
badly  wounded,  but  he  would  get  well,  now.  The 
sight  of  her  had  been  the  medicine  that  he  needed. 

Terry  had  written,  and  Virgie  had  added  a  post- 
script, telling  her  to  stay  as  long  as  she  wanted  to. 


68  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

They  were  getting  along  all  right.  The  chickens  were 
laying  and  the  cows  were  giving  more  milk,  and  the 
garden  was  growing  fast,  and  business  was  bully. 

Terry  was  glad  that  he  sent  that  kind  of  a  letter,  for 
while  it  was  on  its  way  the  situation  at  the  ranch 
changed  in  a  jiffy.  This  is  what  happened : 

He  had  finished  milking,  and  had  driven  the  cows 
out  to  pasture,  and  on  the  old  horse  was  riding  back, 
to  supper.  It  was  a  lonesome  evening.  When  he 
came  out  of  a  little  swale  and  in  sight  of  the  stage 
road  again,  it  appeared  all  deserted;  not  a  moving 
figure  upon  it. 

Fussing  with  the  cows,  and  stopping  to  repair  a 
piece  of  fence,  he  had  been  gone  quite  a  while.  Now 
the  smoke  was  curling  from  the  house  chimney,  as  sign 
that  Virgie  was  starting  supper.  She  had  become  a 
splendid  little  helper — could  cook  and  make  beds  and 
keep  house  better  than  he.  And  she  tended  to  the 
store,  too.  Nobody  tried  to  cheat  her. 

But  see !  Some  people  had  stopped  at  the  store.  As 
he  swung  around,  for  more  of  a  front  view,  he  noted 
horses  standing,  and  men  moving,  in  the  twilight. 
There  were  six  or  eight — they  seemed  very  busy — he 
thought  that  he  heard  Virgie  screaming — the  men 
were  trying  to  get  in,  weren't  they?  By  jiminy! 
Bush-whackers,  or  robbers! 

Terry  spurred  his  horse;  then  he  checked  him. 
His  heart  rose  into  his  throat.  He  thought  fast.  Now 
he  could  see  plainly.  The  men  had  just  battered  in 
the  door;  they  were  carrying  things  out;  where  was 
Virgie  ? 


A  BREAK-UP  ALL  'ROUND  69 

He  might  ride  for  help,  and  get  it  quick.  The  sta- 
tion of  the  stage  line  was  only  a  few  miles  east;  he 
might  ride  there  like  lightning,  and  get  the  men;  but 
first,  where  was  Virgie?  He  couldn't  leave  Virgie. 

Now  he  saw  her — and  he  plunged  in  his  spurs  and 
tore  for  the  house.  Brave  little  Virgie!  She  had  a 
broom,  just  as  she  had  said  she  would  have,  and  was 
beating  right  and  left,  trying  to  drive  the  men  back 
from  the  threshold. 

Good  for  her !  But,  of  course,  she  couldn't  do  much. 
He  didn't  know  that  he  could  do  much,  either;  he 
hadn't  any  very  clear  idea  as  to  that,  except  that  he 
wanted  to  arrive  in  short  order,  and  be  where  she  was. 

Now  they  had  grabbed  Virgie;  one  of  them  was 
holding  her — and  when  she  kicked  and  wriggled,  he 
slapped  her!  That  was  too  much.  Terry's  blood 
boiled.  He  wasn't  afraid  of  a  regiment.  Out  he 
whipped  his  revolver — "Bang!"  and  "Bang!"  And  he 
yelled  like  an  Indian. 

The  ruffians  heard  him,  and  saw  him.  They  ran  for 
their  horses.  They  didn't  know  that  he  was  only  a 
boy,  maybe.  They  were  cowards,  at  heart. 

Virgie  heard  him,  and  saw  him,  too.  She  broke 
free,  and  was  running  for  him  and  calling. 

"Terry!     Terry!     Quick!" 

The  last  man  to  mount  seized  her  again,  and  car- 
ried her  to  his  horse. 

"Drop  that  girl!"  shouted  Terry,  furiously,  point- 
ing his  gun. 

He  was  afraid  to  shoot,  lest  he  hit  Virgie.  Oh, 
shucks!  The  other  men  were  scurrying  away.  This 


70  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

last  man  had  vaulted  aboard,  with  Virgie  clutched 
tightly.  Terry  was  near  enough  to  see  his  face 
plainly.  It  was  a  hairy  face,  under  an  old  slouch  hat. 
Something  in  the  face  and  the  hunched  shoulders 
looked  familiar. 

"Pine  Knot  Ike!    Yes,  sir!    Pine  Knot  Ike!" 

He  hammered  in  flight,  with  Terry  hot  after  him. 

Terry's  old  horse  had  wakened.  Never  had  the  old 
horse  footed  it  so  fast  as  this. 

"Catch  Virgie !  Oh,  catch  Virgie !"  Terry  implored, 
and  the  old  horse  understood.  He  always  had  liked 
Virgie.  She  petted  him  and  fed  him  sugar. 

Virgie  wriggled  again,  and  struck  and  scratched, 
and  even  bit.  She  must  have  bitten  Pine  Knot's  wrist 
or  hand,  for  he  sort  of  shook  her  loose — she  almost 
slipped  off 

"Bang!"  challenged  Terry's  revolver,  at  random, 
across  the  space  of  prairie.  Oh,  if  he  only  dared  to 
try  to  shoot  straight!  "Bang!" 

Pine  Knot  turned  his  ugly  face,  and  saw  that  he 
was  being  overhauled. 

"Drop  that  girl !"  yelled  Terry. 

But,  instead,  Pine  Knot  twisted  about,  leveled  his 
own  revolver  around  Virgie — she  grasped  at  his  arm 
—he  shot — there  was  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  "Bang !" 

"Bang!"  answered  Terry.  Now  he  had  only  one 
cartridge  left.  He  ought  to  save  that,  or  else  reload; 
but  he  didn't  pause  to  reload;  he  was  drawing  close. 

Pine  Knot  knew.  Now  he  let  Virgie  slip.  No,  not 
exactly  slip.  He  threw  her — with  a  fling  as  if  she 
were  a  struggling  cat — aside;  and  she  went  rolling 


A  BREAK-UP  ALL  'ROUND  71 

over  and  over,  poor  little  thing.  He  had  got  rid  of 
her.  She  bothered  him. 

He  showed  his  teeth  at  Terry;  and  whirling  his 
horse  shot  again,  "Bang !"  Terry's  horse  gave  a  grunt 
and  a  great  leap.  Terry  pulled  short,  just  beyond 
Virgie,  who  was  lying  in  a  heap ;  and  he  was  so  crazy 
mad  that  all  he  could  see  was  Ike's  form  coming 
on,  perhaps  to  capture  them  both. 

He  thought  that  maybe  Virgie  was  killed,  and  he 
knew  that  his  old  horse  was  hard  hit,  right  in  the 
chest,  and  he  was  fairly  beside  himself  with  rage. 
He  could  not  tell  how  he  did  it;  but,  without  aiming, 
he  pointed  "Wild  Bill's"  revolver— he  absolutely  felt 
that  the  muzzle  was  right  in  line — his  whole  thought 
was  focussed  on  the  line  between  the  muzzle,  and  Pine 
Knot's  bobbing  chest;  and  he  pulled  trigger. 

"Bang!" 

He  barely  glimpsed  Pine  Knot  reel  in  the  saddle, 
and  topple  down,  while  his  horse  veered  free.  He 
didn't  wait  to  see  more.  His  own  horse  was  down; 
he  sprang  aside  and  rushed  back  to  Virgie. 

She  wasn't  dead !  Not  a  bit !  For  she  was  sitting 
up,  and  rubbing  her  head,  and  staring. 

"Oh,  Virgie!    Are  you  hurt,  Virgie?" 

"Uh  uh.  No,  I'm  not  hurt.  I  don't  feel  any  hurt. 
Did  you  hurt  that  man?  He  fell  off?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care." 

"I  don't  care,  either.  I  told  'em  my  brother  was 
coming  and  they'd  better  look  out.  I  did,  Terry.  I 
beat  them  with  a  broom,  too.  First  I  locked  the  door 
on  them  and  then  they  broke  it  in  and  I  beat  them 


72  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

with  a  broom.  Now  if  they're  hurt  it's  their  own 
fault." 

"Why  didn't  you  run  out  of  the  back  door,  Virgie?" 

"I  didn't  have  to.  It's  our  house,  I  guess.  I  did 
think  I'd  run  and  get  you,  but  I  knew  you'd  come, 
pretty  soon.  So  I  beat  them,  and  they  held  me,  and 
they  stole  a  lot  of  groceries.  Is  Prince  hurt,  Terry?" 

Prince  was  the  horse. 

"Yes,  he's  a  goner.     That  fellow  shot  him." 

"He's  Pine  Knot  Ike— he's  that  Pine  Knot  Ike,  and 
he  was  carrying  me  off,  and  he  shot  at  you  and  hit 
Prince,  and  I  don't  care  if  he  is  hurt — I  don't  care  if 
he's  killed,"  declared  Virgie.  "I  bit  him  as  hard  as  I 
could.  He's  a  mean  man."  She  was  a  regular  little 
spit-fire.  "He'd  have  hurt  you,  if  he  could."  Sud- 
denly her  tone  changed.  She  sat  straighter  and 
pointed.  "Oh,  Terry!  Look!  It's  on  fire!" 

Terry  did  look. 

"They  set  the  house  on  fire!  Come  on,  Virgie! 
Let's  hurry." 

A  column  of  fumy  smoke  was  rolling  up  from  the 
house.  Although  they  hurried  they  could  not  even 
get  inside.  The  smoke  poured  from  the  windows 
downstairs  and  upstairs;  in  a  few  minutes  the  roof 
was  ablaze ;  the  weather-boarding  of  the  outside  shriv- 
eled and  warped ;  the  flames  licked  through ;  and  Virgie 
broke  right  down  and  bawled,  and  Terry  might  only 
sit  at  a  safe  distance,  with  her  in  his  arms,  and  watch 
the  place  burn. 

"Don't  cry,  Virgie,"  he  begged.  "We  can't  put  it 
out  by  crying." 


A  BREAK-UP  ALL  'ROUND  73 

"But  if  that  man  hadn't  carried  me  off  and  you 
hadn't  had  to  chase  us,  we  could  have  put  it  out," 
wailed  Virgie.  "And  we  wrote  and  said  everything 
was  all  right,  and  now  everything's  all  wrong." 

"No,  it  isn't.  You're  safe,  and  I'm  safe;  and  ma 
and  pa'd  a  heap  rather  have  us  than  the  house  and 
store." 

The  store  being  a  part  of  the  house,  of  course  both 
had  gone  up  in  smoke  and  flame  together.  The  roof 
had  fallen  in,  with  a  smother  of  sparks ;  and  now  the 
darkness  was  gathering  about  the  last  flickering 
flames. 

"Anyhow,  we  can  sleep  in  the  stable,  under  the 
horse  blankets,"  said  Terry.  "That  will  be  fun.  Are 
you  hungry,  Virgie  ?  Oh — I  know !  We've  got  milk, 
in  the  cellar." 

"And  meat,"  reminded  Virgie.  "A  whole  lot  of 
meat,  hanging  up.  We  can  cook  it  over  the  fire. 
There's  plenty  of  fire !  But  what' 11  we  do  to-morrow, 
Terry?  We  haven't  any  store,  and  we  haven't  any 
post-office  and  everything's  burned,  and  uncle's 
wounded  and  auntie'll  think  she'll  have  to  come 
back !" 

Virgie's  voice  trailed  off  into  another  little  wail. 
Terry  didn't  blame  her.  But  he  was  the  man  of  the 
outfit,  so  he  braced  her  up. 

"We'll  think  of  something,  so  she  can  stay.  I  guess 
now  I'd  better  go  out  to  Pine  Knot  Ike,  and  Prince. 
Are  you  afraid  to  wait  here?" 

Virgie  stared  at  him  wide-eyed. 

"I — don't — know.     Do  you  have  to  go?" 


74  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"I  ought  to." 

"W-well,"  shuddered  Virgie.  "I  wouldn't  go  out 
there  in  the  dark  for  anything,  and  if  I  sit  here  alone 
I'll  scream.  I  feel  sort  of  queer.  I'll  hide  in  the 
stable,  and  you  hurry." 

"Somebody's  coming,"  said  Terry. 

At  first  he  thought  that  it  might  be  the  men  from 
the  swing  station.  The  hoof-beats  of  horses  sounded 
dully;  two  riders  bore  down  through  the  gloom;  they 
pulled  up  sharply  beside  the  smouldering  ruins. 

"Hello!     What's  the  matter  here?" 

They  were  "Wild  Bill"  Hickok  and  young  Billy 
Cody,  fully  armed  and  grimly  anxious. 


DROP  THAT   GIRL!"   SHOUTED   TERRY,    FURIOUSLY.    POiNTIMS    HIS   GUN. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SEEKING  THEIR  FORTUNE  AGAIN 

NOBODY  could  have  been  more  welcome.  Terry 
faced  them  gladly,  while  Virgie  dried  her  tears. 

"Some  bush-whackers  burned  us  out." 

"Rather  looks  like  it,"  agreed  Billy  Cody.  "The 
skunks !"  His  eyes  glinted  angrily  as  he  gazed  about, 
reading  the  signs. 

"How  many  were  there  ?"  quickly  asked  "Wild 
Bill." 

"Eight  or  ten.  I  wasn't  here  when  they  came. 
Virgie  was  here  all  alone." 

"I  beat  'em  with  a  broom,  and  when  Terry  came 
they  ran  and  Terry  chased  'em  and  shot  Pine  Knot 
Ike,"  informed  Virgie. 

"Oh!    That  yellow  dog?    You  got  him,  did  you?" 

"He  was  carrying  off  Virgie  and  that  made  me 
mad,"  admitted  Terry.  "He  saw  I  was  catching  him 
and  he  threw  her  down,  and  I  thought  he'd  killed  her ; 
so  I  shot  right  at  him  and  I  guess  I  hurt  him  pretty 
bad." 

"The  skulking  coward.  Kidnapped  her  for  a  shield 
and  ransom,  I  reckon,"  rapped  "Wild  Bill."  "Where 
is  he?" 

75 


76  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Out  there."  And  Terry  pointed.  "He  shot  my 
horse  under  me,  first." 

"We'd  better  go  see,  Billy/' 

"We  sighted  this  fire  away  yonder  down  the  trail," 
explained  Billy  Cody,  as  they  turned  away.  "The 
station  hands  didn't  know  whether  it  was  Injuns,  or 
what,  so  we  lit  out  to  learn  about  it." 

They  were  gone  a  considerable  time.  When  they 
returned  they  brought  in  Prince's  saddle  and  bridle. 

"Your  hoss  is  dead,  and  so's  your  man — or  what 
pretended  to  be  a  man,"  announced  "Wild  Bill."  "You 
hit  him  plumb  center.  We  followed  the  trail  of  the 
others  a  mile  or  two.  They'd  killed  your  cows,  in 
passing.  Another  dirty  trick.  So  seems  like  you're 
pretty  well  wiped  out.  That  must  have  been  a  regular 
low-down  gang  of  robbers,  using  the  war  as  an  excuse. 
Where's  your  mother?" 

"She's  gone  east.  My  father's  wounded.  She's 
got  to  tend  to  him." 

"You  two  here  alone  ?"  inquired  Billy. 

"Yes ;  but  we  didn't  mind.  We  were  doing  fine, 
until "  and  Terry  choked. 

"That's  shore  tough  luck,"  mused  Billy.  "I'd  like 
to  have  been  here." 

"What  are  you  calculating  on  next?"  queried  "Wild 
Bill."  "Got  any  place  to  go?" 

"You  can  live  at  the  Grasshopper  with  my  folks," 
invited  Billy  Cody.  "Ma'3  be  powerful  glad  to  have 
you." 

Terry  had  been  doing  some  hard  thinking. 

"N-no.    Much  obliged,  Billy.    Guess  I'll  take  Virgie 


SEEKING  THEIR  FORTUNE  AGAIN     77 

and  go  back  to  Denver.  Then  she  can  stay  with  her 
folks  there,  and  I  can  get  a  job.  'T  won't  do  any 
good  to  hang  'round  here  in  Kansas.  If  I  did  that, 
ma'd  worry  and  be  coming  back,  and  my  father'd 
worry.  After  we're  settled  I'll  tell  her  all  about  it, 
but  I  don't  want  to  bother  her  when  there's  no  use 
in  it.  She  couldn't  do  any  good,  worrying." 

"You're  the  right  stuff,"  asserted  "Wild  Bill." 
"How  you  going?" 

"Join  a  bull  train,  I  reckon,  and  work  my  way.  I 
can  drive  bulls.  I  helped  drive  clear  across  the  plains 
three  years  ago — and  we  drove  out  from  Ohio,  too, 
before  that,"  stanchly  answered  Terry. 

"That's  man  talk,"  approved  "Wild  Bill."  "Where'll 
you  sleep  to-night?  Down  at  the  station?" 

"Uh  uh!"  uttered  Virgie.  "We're  going  to  sleep 
in  the  stable,  under  horse  blankets ;  aren't  we,  Terry  ?" 

"Hooray!"  cheered  "Wild  Bill,"  admiringly.  "Ex- 
pect you'll  take  your  broom  to  bed  with  you." 

"It's  burned,"  said  Virgie.  "I  bit  that  man  in  the 
arm,  though;  didn't  I,  Terry?" 

"Got  anything  to  eat?"  asked  Billy  Cody. 

"Sure,"  Terry  declared.  "There's  stuff  in  the 
cellar." 

And  that  was  so.  The  outside  cellar,  which  was  a 
dug-out,  had  not  been  burned,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  it  was  covered  with  dirt. 

"Got  any  money?" 

"N-no,"  confessed  Terry.  "That  was  burned,  too, 
along  with  the  broom." 

"Lookee  here,"  spoke  "Wild  Bill."     "Billy  and  I 


78  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

can't  stop ;  we're  on  scout  duty,  and  under  orders  from 
the  colonel,  and  we're  bound  south."  He  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  roll  of  bills. 
"Here's  a  hundred  dollars,  more  or  less.  It's  all  I 
happen  to  have.  You  take  it;  and  when  the  west- 
bound stage  comes  along  in  the  morning  you  get 
aboard  and  go  as  far  as  you  can.  It's  the  messenger 
coach,  and  likely  won't  have  many  passengers;  so  I 
reckon  you  can  squeeze  in." 

"Oh — I  don't  want  any  money,  Bill,"  stammered 
Terry.  "I  can  work  my  way.  I'd  as  soon  work  my 
way  as  not." 

"I  won't  listen  to  that  line  of  talk,"  retorted  "Wild 
Bill."  "You  two  are  burned  out,  and  Billy  and  I've 
got  money  enough  between  us,  and  here's  the  roll. 
You  may  need  it.  If  you  don't  need  it  send  it  back. 
But  I  advise  you  to  travel  as  far  as  you  can  by  stage, 
so  as  to  get  through  quicker.  The  Injuns  are  liable 
to  make  the  trail  pretty  warm,  any  day.  Your  mother 
and  father  won't  mind  losing  this  store  and  house,  as 
long  as  you're  safe." 

"W-well.  I'll  send  it  back,  all  right,"  accepted 
Terry.  Of  course  he  had  Virgie  to  look  out  for. 
"Where'll  I  send  it?" 

"Just  to  'Wild  Bill'  Hickok,  Fort  §  Leavenworth. 
It'll  find  me.  But  no  hurry.  What's  money  for,  if  not 
to  help  somebody  along  who  hasn't  got  it?" 

"I'm  mightily  obliged,  Bill.  Here's  your  gun,  any- 
way. I  guess  I'm  done  with  it." 

"Keep  it." 

"Nope,  thank  you."     And  Terry  soberly  shook  his 


SEEKING  THEIR  FORTUNE  AGAIN    79 

head.  "I  don't  want  it  any  more,  please.  I — I — 
doesn't  seem  as  if  I  could  ever  fire  another  shot, 
Bill." 

"Wild  Bill"  took  it. 

f(l  know  how  you  feel,  youngster,"  he  said.  "I've 
had  to  do  that  kind  of  work  myself — defending  some- 
thing or  somebody;  and  after  it  was  over  I  always 
felt  the  same  way.  No  man  hates  to  pull  trigger 
against  a  human  being  worse  than  I  do.  It's  a  serious 
matter." 

And  coming  from  "Wild  Bill"  Hickok,  the  pistol 
expert,  that  sounded  odd;  but  he  spoke  in  earnest. 

Billy  Cody  gravely  nodded. 

"You're  entitled  to  that  other  gun — the  one  that 
shot  your  hoss,"  he  offered. 

"I  wouldn't  touch  it,"  shuddered  Terry. 

"All  right.  I  don't  blame  you.  Well,  what  Bill 
and  I  don't  have  time  to  tend  to,  the  station  men  will 
look  after,  to-morrow.  We'll  tell  'em  to  keep  for  you 
whatever  stuff  you  leave.  You  two  stay  close  to-night, 
and  hop  the  stage  in  the  morning.  So  long,  and  good 
luck." 

"You'd  better  take  a  dollar  out  of  that  roll  and 
buy  the  girl  another  broom,"  laughed  "Wild  Bill."  "I 
bet  you  with  a  broom  she'd  clean  out  the  trail  from 
here  clear  to  Denver!" 

They  shook  hands  with  Terry,  and  leaned  down  and 
shook  hands  politely  with  Virgie ;  and  away  they  rode, 
south  into  the  darkness. 

Terry  gazed  gratefully  after.  They  had  been 
friends  in  need. 


8o  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

He  and  Virgie  managed  a  supper  of  milk  and  a 
slice  of  antelope  quarter  scorched  on  some  coals,  and 
a  half-baked  potato.  They  weren't  very  hungry.  The 
sight  of  the  smoking  ruins  spoiled  their  appetites. 

Virgie  slept  first-rate  under  the  horse  blanket,  but 
Terry  found  it  hard  to  keep  his  eyes  closed.  He  had 
her  to  guard.  There  were  noises,  by  mice  and  rats 
and  coyotes — he  smelled  the  smoke — he  saw  the  house 
burning — he  chased  Pine  Knot — he  did  everything  all 
over  again,  and  he  wondered  what  his  father  and 
mother  would  think. 

They'd  be  surprised  when  they  heard  from  him; 
but  that  wouldn't  be  until  he  and  Virgie  were  safe  in 
Denver,  and  then  it  would  be  too  late  for  them  to 
worry ! 

The  stage  was  due  about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
He  and  Virgie  had  little  packing  to  work  at,  before- 
hand. They  were  down  to  the  horse  blankets,  and 
the  clothes  they  wore;  and  Prince's  saddle  and  bridle. 
There  were  a  few  pans  in  the  dug-out  cellar,  but  they 
wouldn't  take  those. 

The  stage  came  right  on  time,  with  Lew  Hill  peer- 
ing from  the  box.  They  didn't  need  to  stand  in  the 
road  and  wave;  he  was  all  ready  to  stop,  and  stop  he 
did. 

"By  jiminy,  you  got  burned  out  for  sure,  didn't 
you!"  he  hailed.  "I  heard  about  it  this  morning. 
Billy  Cody  says  you  licked  the  gang  with  a  broom 
and  then  chased  'em  down  to  the  Arkansas  River  and 
took  a  scalp." 

"Can  we  ride  a  way  with  you,  Lew  ?"  asked  Terry. 


SEEKING  THEIR  FORTUNE  AGAIN     81 

"We're  going  to  Denver.  I'll  pay  as  far  as  I  can." 
"You  bet  you'll  pay,  but  not  with  money,"  asserted 
Lew.  "You'll  work  your  passage.  Sling  your  traps 
on  and  climb  aboard,  both  of  you.  I'm  short  a  mes- 
senger." 

That  was  so.  Lew  was  alone.  The  express  coach, 
called  the  messenger  coach,  left  the  Missouri  River 
every  Monday  morning,  when  there  were  no  mails  in. 
It  carried  only  the  express  packages,  and  sometimes 
what  mail  had  been  laid  over  from  the  other  coaches, 
and  took  passengers  if  it  had  any  space  for  them.  An 
express  messenger  or  guard  was  supposed  to  ride  on 
the  box,  through  to  the  other  end;  and  check  up  the 
express  and  guard  the  valuables. 

"My  messenger  got  sick  back  a  piece,  and  had  to 
go  to  bed  at  Guittards'  station,"  continued  Lew.  "I'm 
too  plumb  afraid  to  ride  alone  on  this  here  coach  full 
of  Government  dockyments  and  other  valuable  stuff. 
When  I  heard  at  the  swing  station  that  you  and  the 
girl  were  waiting  to  go  to  Denver  I  was  surely  tickled. 
This  coach  needs  protection  bad.  How  about  it  ?  Will 
you  take  the  job,  for  your  passage?" 
"I'll  help,"  cried  Virgie. 

"Aw,  shucks!"  Terry  blurted.  "I'd  rather  pay, 
Lew.  I  don't  know  enough  to  be  messenger."  What 
he  did  know  was  that  Lew  intended  he  shouldn't  pay ; 
it  was  a  scheme. 

"Sure  you  know  enough.  You've  had  schooling, 
and  you  can  handle  a  gun.  Here's  the  messenger's 
sawed-off  scatter-gun ;  and  here's  the  way-bill,  to  check 
up  by.  If  I  don't  get  you  for  messenger,  me  or  the 


82  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

boys  ahead'll  have  to  take  aboard  a  hostler — and  that 
would  be  a  pretty  note,  riding  with  a  hostler  on  the 
box,  who  like  as  not  can't  read  or  write." 

"I'll  try,  then/'  said  Terry. 

"Hand  up  your  traps.  Reckon  you  both  had  better 
ride  atop.  The  coach  is  near  full.  I've  got  all  the 
speeches  made  in  Congress  for  the  past  two  weeks, 
besides  the  express ;  and  those  Congressmen  have  done 
a  heap  o'  talkin'.  That'll  be  great  stuff  for  the  Injuns. 
They'll  choke  to  death  on  it.  The  boys  back  at  the 
station  said  to  tell  you  they'd  look  out  for  whatever 
you  leave.  They'll  stow  it  away.  Billy  Cody  was  in 
again  last  night — him  and  'Wild  Bill' — and  made 
arrangements.  All  'board!" 

With  Terry  settled  on  the  box  and  Virgie  clinging 
fast  amidst  the  packages  on  the  top,  the  coach  lum- 
bered on.  This  was  great  good  luck. 

"We're  sitting  on  $30,000  in  specie,"  remarked  Lew, 
after  Terry  had  retold  the  story  of  last  night's  adven- 
tures, "but  that  gun's  loaded  with  buckshot,  both  bar- 
rels, hosses  are  tip-top,  all  'long  the  line,  and  for  one, 
I  wouldn't  ask  a  better  man  on  the  seat  with  me — not 
if  I  was  going  to  drive  clear  through.  You  aren't 
very  big,  but  you  weigh  as  much  as  Billy  Cody,  and 
he  weighs  close  to  'Wild  Bill'  himself." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH 

LEW  finished  out  his  run  of  thirty-five  miles,  and 
turned  the  lines  and  the  coach  over  to  the  next  driver, 
"Bishop"  West.  He  turned  over  Terry  and  Virgie, 
too ;  for  when  "Bishop"  climbed  to  the  box  he  greeted 
them  both  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"Good  company  makes  a  short  trip,"  he  remarked. 
"I  didn't  know  but  what  Ben  Holladay  himself  was 
aboard  by  the  way  you-all  came  romping  in." 

"Bishop"  West  proved  to  be  a  very  pleasing  man, 
and  exceedingly  popular  along  the  route.  He  talked 
like  a  college  man,  rarely  swore  ('twas  said),  and 
could  go  into  a  pulpit  and  preach  a  sermon.  He  had 
stories  of  some  exciting  rides.  Once  he  had  been 
caught  in  a  storm  and  his  toes  had  been  frozen  off. 

All  this  afternoon  the  messenger  coach  rolled 
steadily  onward.  Toward  evening  "Bishop"  was  re- 
lieved by  Charlie  Haynes.  When  the  drivers  got  off, 
they  took  their  whips  with  them.  That  was  one  thing 
they  never  left.  The  whip  belonged  to  the  driver. 
It  was  his  scepter.  As  "Bishop"  explained : 

"I'll  lend  my  shirt  or  my  boots,  but  when  it  comes 
to  lending  my  whip  I  balk.  When  a  fellow's  carried 

83 


84  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

his  whip  several  hundred  miles,  and  can  nip  a  fly  off 
the  back  of  the  lead  hoss  without  touching  the  hide, 
he  feels  as  though  he  was  married  to  it.  He's  about 
as  handy  without  it  as  a  cat  is  without  a  tail.  And 
no  other  whip,  or  tail  either,  has  the  right  hang  to  it." 

Driver  Charlie  Haynes  was  one  of  the  old-timers. 
He  had  been  driving  stage  for  seventeen  years;  be- 
gan in  Ohio  and  kept  drifting  west,  until  here  he  was, 
on  the  Overland.  He  said  that  the  box  of  the  Concord 
coach  was  home  to  him. 

The  messenger  coach  rolled  on,  heading  northwest 
for  the  great  Platte  Valley.  Once  at  Fort  Kearney, 
on  the  Platte,  then  there  would  be  a  long,  straight  run, 
westward,  up  the  wide,  shallow  Platte,  to  Julesburg. 

Sitting  alertly  on  the  box,  his  sawed-off  shot-gun 
across  his  knees,  as  Overland  messenger  guarding  the 
express,  Terry  felt  about  as  important  as  the  great 
Ben  Holladay  might  feel. 

He  was  riding  on  a  special  coach  of  the  Overland 
Stage  Line.  He  was  supposed  not  to  leave  it  for  a 
minute,  except  for  meals — and  the  meals  were  sup- 
plied to  him  free,  because  he  was  the  messenger.  The 
station-keepers  at  the  home  stations  would  not  take 
pay  for  Virgie's  meals,  either,  perhaps  because  she  was 
a  girl  and  girls  were  rather  scarce ;  or  perhaps  because 
the  drivers  tipped  them  a  wink. 

The  $30,000  in  specie  was  in  a  little  iron  safe  under 
the  seat.  To  be  sitting  on  top  of  $30,000  gave  a  fel- 
low somewhat  of  an  importance,  also. 

Virgie  slept  inside,  to-night,  on  the  express  pack- 
ages leveled  off  by  several  sacks  of  mail — the  soft- 


TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     85 

est  sacks.  There  was  room  enough  for  her  to  sit  up 
— but  that  was  all.  Terry  dozed  on  the  seat,  for  a 
while,  so  as  to  be  there  in  case  of  a  hold-up;  but  he 
was  so  tired  that  he  almost  toppled  off,  and  the  driver, 
a  good-natured  man  by  the  name  of  Jack  Braden, 
after  a  bit  told  him  to  get  into  the  boot. 

"Sure,  that's  allowable,"  insisted  Jack.  "I'll  kick 
backward  and  wake  you  up,  if  there's  trouble.  When 
I  kick,  you  pop  out,  ready  for  business." 

Terry  took  his  shot-gun  to  bed  with  him,  and  shared 
the  boot  with  the  treasure  safe.  He  slept  doubled  up, 
but  he  slept  hard.  Now  and  again  he  lurched  and 
half  wakened,  when  the  stage  struck  a  creek  bed,  and 
he  knew  that  he  was  traveling  on  and  on,  through  the 
star-lighted  night,  across  the  plains. 

The  first  stop,  at  a  swing  station  for  fresh  horses, 
made  him  hold  his  breath  a  moment.  But  he  soon 
found  out,  and  the  other  stops  did  not  bother  him. 
In  fact,  he  had  not  amounted  to  much  as  a  guard, 
for  when  finally  he  wakened  with  both  eyes,  the  black- 
ness of  the  boot  had  faded  to  grayness.  Morning  had 
come. 

He  heard  a  merry  tune,  above  him,  and  above  the 
rumble  of  wheels  and  the  clatter  of  hoofs.  The  coach 
was  still  all  right.  He  wriggled  out,  in  haste  and  a 
little  ashamed,  and  peered  up  into  the  laughing  face  of 
Bob  Hodge,  again. 

Bob  and  his  copper  bugle  were  on  the  box,  just  as  a 
year  ago. 

"By  thunder!"  challenged  Driver  Bob.  "I've  been 
wondering  where  that  messenger  was.  How  long 


86  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

have  you  been  in  there?  They  told  me  I  had  a  gal 
asleep  on  the  packages  inside  the  coach,  and  that  she'd 
protect  me  in  a  pinch,  but  I  didn't  know  about  any- 
body else.  My  hair's  been  standing  straight  for  the 
last  ten  miles.  Injuns  always  attack  at  dawn — and 
they're  awful  keen  to  capture  those  bound  volumes  of 
Government  speeches.  It  makes  light  reading  for  'em, 
to  occupy  their  time  between  raids." 

Bob  drove  from  Thirty-two  Mile  to  Kearney. 

"Who  comes  next  ?"  queried  Terry.    "Bill  Trotter  ?" 

"Nope.  Bill's  been  transferred  farther  west.  He's 
driving  between  Valley  Station  and  Bijou,  on  the 
Denver  line.  Times  are  changing,  and  we  drivers 
change  with  'em.  We  like  new  scenery,  same  as  any- 
body." 

Yes,  the  stage  line  was  changing,  too.  As  he  rolled 
westward,  Terry  could  see  that  with  half  an  eye.  Sta- 
tions had  been  rebuilt  and  enlarged  and  new  ones 
located ;  the  station-keepers  and  the  "hands"  were  busy 
and  alert ;  the  horses  and  mules  were  well  fed  and  well 
groomed — picked  stock,  with  every  strap  of  their 
harness  oiled  and  every  buckle  shining. 

Mr.  Holladay  had  been  spending  a  lot  of  money. 
Nobody  knew  exactly  how  much.  But  many  of  the 
horses  had  cost  $200  apiece,  and  he  had  bought  about 
a  thousand  already.  The  coaches  cost  $1,000  apiece, 
and  he  had  bought  at  least  fifty.  The  harness  cost 
$150  a  four-horse  set,  and  there  were  almost  3,000 
horses  and  mules  in  use. 

Altogether,  according  to  the  reckoning  of  one  of 
the  drivers,  there  was  $500,000  worth  of  animals, 


TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     87 

$55,000  worth  of  harness,  $100,000  worth  of  coaches; 
and,  what  with  salaries  and  feed  and  other  up-keep,  the 
Overland  Stage  Line,  "lock,  stock  and  barrel,"  figured 
up  to  about  two  million  and  a  half  dollars  for  the  year, 
in  outfit  and  expenses. 

"Lookee  here,"  proposed  Bob  abruptly.  "There's 
a  clear  stretch  ahead.  Suppose  you  handle  the  rib- 
bons for  a  spell.  I'll  teach  you  the  tricks  of  the  trade. 
Then  some  day  maybe  you'll  be  drawing  down  your 
seventy-five  a  month  and  board,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
You're  used  to  hosses,  I  take  it." 

"I've  driven  a  team;  and  I  helped  drive  a  mule 
and  a  half-buffalo  across  to  Denver,"  asserted 
Terry. 

"Fours  aren't  much  different  from  a  span,  and  when 
you  can  drive  fours  you  can  drive  sixes,  if  you've 
got  fingers  enough.  Begin  on  these  fours ;  at  the  next 
stage  they  use  sixes,  and  I'll  pass  the  word  along  that 
you're  a  cub  who  wants  to  be  a  king  whip.  The  boys 
are  always  willing  to  teach  a  cub,  if  he  doesn't  act 
too  smart.  Here's  your  bunch  of  lines." 

The  horses  kept  the  road  without  guiding.  There 
were  four  lines,  two  to  be  held  in  either  hand,  between 
the  fingers,  and  Terry  speedily  got  the  knack  of  it. 
He  was  driving  from  the  wrong  side,  of  course,  and 
Bob  did  the  braking.  But  after  a  bit  Bob  insisted 
upon  changing  places. 

"There's  as  much  in  using  the  brake  right  as  there 
is  in  handling  the  lines.  A  good  driver'll  save  his 
team  a  whole  lot,  with  the  brake ;  and  a  poor  driver'll 
simply  nag'  em  into  a  lather.  You've  got  to  know 


88  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

how  to  drive  with  your  foot  as  well  as  with  your 
hands." 

Terry  drove  nobly  for  an  hour.  That  was  a  great 
sensation — to  be  piloting  a  four-horse  Overland  stage 
across  the  boundless  plains,  with  Driver  Bob  leaning 
back  in  comfort  beisde  him,  and  now  and  then  utter- 
ing a  word  of  caution,  telling  him  when  to  trot  and 
when  to  pull  down,  when  to  brake  and  when  to  release. 

"Up-grade,  give  'em  the  loose  rein  and  let  'em  take 
their  own  gait;  don't  push  'em  unless  they  show  sign 
of  being  stuck,  and  then  in  that  case  throw  the  gad 
into  'em  and  talk  to  'em  proper.  Down-hill,  ease  'em 
with  the  brake  and  hold  'em  up  with  the  bit.  On  the 
level  let  'em  out  and  make  your  time.  It's  the  steady 
system  that  covers  the  miles." 

At  the  next  swing  station  they  changed  to  sixes, 
and  Terry  took  his  turn  at  these. 

Virgie,  too,  was  enjoying  the  ride  immensely.  She 
trundled  along  in  state,  with  a  whole  coach  to  herself, 
and  might  look  down  upon  the  toiling  emigrant  out- 
fits as  though  she  were  a  princess  touring  the  country. 

By  night  Terry's  arms  ached.  There  was  consid- 
erable work  in  driving  four  and  six  horses,  even  at  odd 
spells.  However,  the  driving  served  to  make  the  jour- 
ney shorter — but  he  was  still  the  messenger,  and  he 
decided  that  he  would  sleep  no  more  in  the  boot. 

He  very  well  knew  that  a  messenger  ought  to  stay 
upon  the  box,  day  and  night.  A  messenger  asleep 
underneath  the  seat,  behind  the  leather  apron  of  the 
boot,  would  not  be  much  good  in  a  surprise  attack. 

So  this  night  he  slept  sitting  up,  between  stations. 


TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     89 

That  made  him  earn  his  pay,  for  once  in  a  while,  as 
he  nodded,  his  head  was  nearly  jerked  from  his  neck. 

"Fiddler  Jim"  Graves,  who  took  the  lines  out  of 
Cottonwood  Springs,  only  laughed  at  him. 

"By  the  time  you've  made  a  round  trip  you  can 
sleep  on  a  tin  roof  in  a  hail  storm.  Me,  I  can  sleep 
on  this  box  for  ten  miles  at  a  stretch,  and  have  an  ear 
open  every  minute.  When  I  wake  up,  all  I  have  to 
do  is  .to  taste  the  dust  to  tell  where  I  am.  Stow  your- 
self in  the  boot,  if  you  want  to.  I'll  not  report  you 
to  the  division  agent.  He's  asleep  himself,  wherever 
he  is.  You  can  bet  on  that." 

However,  Terry  stuck  it  out.  If  the  division  agent 
did  catch  him  in  the  boot — wow!  On  the  Overland 
there  were  three  main  divisions :  the  Eastern  Division, 
between  Atchison  and  Denver;  the  Central  Division, 
between  Denver  and  Salt  Lake ;  and  the  Western  Divi- 
sion, between  Salt  Lake  and  the  California  end. 

They  were  about  600  miles  each,  and  in  charge  of 
division  superintendents.  And  each  division  was  di- 
vided into  three  other  divisions,  of  about  200  miles 
each,  in  charge  of  a  division  agent.  Atchison  and 
Fort  Kearney  were  one  division,  Kearney  and  Jules- 
burg  were  a  second  division,  and  Julesburg  and  Denver 
were  a  third  division. 

If  an  agent  were  met,  just  what  he  would  think  of 
a  boy  messenger  Terry  did  not  dare  to  say;  but  he 
certainly  would  not  think  much  of  a  boy  who  hid  in 
the  driver's  boot. 

At  Fort  Kearney  the  trip  had  been  one-third  over. 
At  Julesburg,  on  the  third  day  from  home  (or  the 


9o  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

fourth  day  from  the  Missouri  River)  it  was  two- 
thirds  over. 

There  were  only  a  few  packages  for  Salt  Lake  and 
beyond ;  the  greater  bulk  stayed  in  the  coach  and  went 
on  to  Denver.  That  was  good.  It  saved  fussing 
with  the  way-bill — although  Terry  had  no  fear  of  the 
way-bill.  It  was  as  plain  as  print.  He  had  to  sign 
his  name  once — and  he  signed  it  large  and  round : 
"Terry  Richards,  Act'g  Messenger." 

Amidst  the  joking  leveled  at  him,  a  quiet  man  had 
stood,  listening  and  watching,  but  saying  not  a  word. 
When  the  stage  pulled  out  again,  on  up  the  South 
Platte,  for  the  mountains  where  Denver  waited, 
"Sandy"  Sterling,  the  new  driver,  laughed. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  say-nothing  but  heap-look 
gent  was,  sizing  you  up,  back  there  in  the  station  ?" 

"No." 

"That  was  the  division  agent.  I  reckon  he  was 
sure  astonished  at  the  small  shadow  you  cast,  for  a 
messenger;  but  Ben  Holladay  hires  by  their  inside 
measure  and  not  by  their  outside.  So  Mister  Division 
Agent  riggers  that  maybe  you're  bigger'n  you  look." 

"Is  Sol  Judy  still  driving  out  of  Denver?"  asked 
Terry. 

"No,  he  isn't.  He's  enlisted,  I  hear.  Long  Slim's 
driving  on  the  cut-off,  between  Denver  and  Bijou ;  but 
there's  some  talk  of  doing  away  with  the  cut-off  and 
running  from  Julesburg  straight  west  almost  to  the 
mountains,  and  connecting  with  Denver  from  there. 
That's  on  account  of  Injun  troubles  north  of  Jules- 
burg,  where  the  main  line  goes  now." 


TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     91 

"You  haven't  had  any  Injun  troubles  around  here, 
have  you?" 

"None  to  speak  of.  That' s  not  saying  we  won't 
have,  though.  Gid-dap!" 

The  road  west  from  Julesburg  was  rough  and  heavy 
with  sand.  They'd  had  breakfast  at  Julesburg,  din- 
ner would  be  waiting  at  Spring  Hill,  and  supper  and 
Bill  Trotter  at  Valley.  But  on  many  stretches  the 
groaning  coach  made  only  three  miles  an  hour.  The 
air  was  hot  and  still ;  the  dust  hung  thick  as  the  coach 
ploughed  along;  the  mules  coughed,  Virgie  sputtered. 

"Aren't  we  almost  there?"  she  appealed. 

"To-morrow,  I  guess,"  Terry  answered.  "This  isn't 
any  worse  than  it  was  back  at  Alkali,  you  know." 

"One  thing's  sure :  we'll  be  late  into  Valley,"  spoke 
Driver  Sterling.  And  he  added,  suddenly:  "Men- 
tioning Injun,  look  yonder."  He  pointed  with  his 
whip. 

There  was  a  wide  gap  in  the  procession  of  toiling 
freighters  and  emigrants  who  had  scarcely  ever  been 
out  of  sight,  all  the  way  from  Kansas.  The  road 
was  lonely.  Right  and  left  extended  the  plains,  of 
dun  soil  dotted  with  clumps  of  sage  and  grease-wood, 
and  broken  here  and ,  there  by  sharp  hummocks  and 
wind-cut  buttes.  The  only  bright  green  was  the  wil- 
lows and  cottonwoods  of  the  Platte  River.  The  only 
objects  moving  on  the  soil  were  the  prairie-dogs  and 
a  few  antelope — and  now,  Indians! 

The  Indians  were  about  twenty — horseback,  seemed 
to  be  not  more  than  a  couple  of  miles  distant,  on  the 
right,  riding  by  twos  and  threes,  parallel  with  the  stage 


92  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

road,  armed  with  bows  and  lances  and  jogging  easily 
through  the  shimmer  of  sand  and  alkali. 

Virgie  exclaimed : 

"Don't  let  them  catch  us.  Fm  afraid  of  Indians. 
They  tried  to  buy  me." 

Terry's  grip  tightened  on  his  shot-gun,  and  he  tried 
to  speak  calmly. 

"What'll  they  do?    Head  us  off,  Sandy?" 

Driver  "Sandy"  spat  over  the  wheel. 

"Sioux  or  Cheyennes,  I  reckon.  Looks  like  a  war 
party,  but  they  may  be  ten  or  twenty  miles  off.  That's 
a  mirage — that's  only  the  riggers  of  'em,  thrown  on 
the  air,  somehow.  Well,  I  hope  they  keep  where  they 
belong." 

For  about  ten  minutes  the  figures  were  in  sight; 
then  they  vanished,  as  if  wiped  out  by  a  breeze. 
"Sandy"  sighed  a  breath  of  relief. 

"Told  you  so.  Mebbe  they're  bound  into  the  moun- 
tains, after  the  Utes.  But  this  war  is  stirring  the 
plains  Injuns  up.  While  the  whites  are  a-fighting 
each  other,  Mister  Injun  thinks  he  might  as  well  take 
a  hand  on  his  own  hook." 

Although  for  the  rest  of  the  day  the  coach  outfit 
kept  a  sharp  outlook,  no  Indians  were  again  sighted, 
except  a  small  band  of  Arapaho  men  and  women, 
camped  at  Spring  Hill,  to  beg  from  the  overlanders 
who  passed  through. 

It  was  after  dark  when  Valley  Station  and  Bill 
Trotter  were  reached.  That  had  been  a  long,  hard  day 
— and  a  nervous  day.  Virgie  was  so  tired  that  she 
could  scarcely  eat  the  supper  of  salt  pork  and  soggy 


TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     93 

potatoes  and  coffee  made  with  alkali  water,  and  dried- 
apple  pie.  They  put  her  to  bed  in  the  coach  before 
starting  on.  Terry  tried  to  talk  with  Bill,  on  the  box, 
but  he  nodded,  Bill's  voice  got  farther  and  farther 
away,  the  coach  lumbered  on,  creaking  and  swaying 
and  plunging — and  huddled  lax,  Terry  actually  slept. 

He  slept  pretty  well  all  night;  for  when  he  stiffly 
straightened  up  at  last,  and  blinked  about  him,  the 
gray  dawn  was  revealing  the  same  old  road,  follow- 
ing up  along  the  Platte,  with  the  lonesome  plains- 
land  lying  widely  on  either  hand,  the  six  horses  plod- 
ding before,  and  the  driver,  whip  and  bunch  of  lines  in 
hand,  sitting  beside  him. 

"About  time  you  came  alive,"  grunted  Bill.  "How's 
your  smeller?  Can  you  smell  Injun?" 

Terry  obediently  sniffed. 

"No.     Can  you?" 

"I  can!"  asserted  Virgie. 

She  was  on  top  again. 

"How  did  Virgie  get  there?  I  thought  she  was 
inside." 

"So  she  was,"  answered  Bill.  "But  she  was  hol- 
lering to  climb  out,  so  back  at  Kelly's  Ranch  station  I 
stopped  and  let  her  loose.  Now  I  wish  I  hadn't." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  my  smeller's  working,  and  it  says  'Injuns.' 
If  that  gang  you  were  telling  about  want  to  make  us 
trouble,  they'll  be  laying  for  us  about  four  miles  ahead, 
in  the  hills  between  here  and  Beaver  Creek." 

"I  smell  them.  I  do!"  declared  Virgie,  wrinkling 
her  blistered  nose. 


94  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

That  was  absurd.  She  was  only  talking.  But  Bill 
pulled  short. 

"In  that  case  the  best  place  for  you  is  inside  again," 
he  said.  "I  won't  have  any  gal,  or  woman  either,  rid- 
ing in  plain  sight  through  Injun  country.  We'll  just 
dig  a  hole  for  you  in  amongst  those  sacks,  and  cover 
you  over  till  we're  in  sight  o'  Beaver." 

Virgie  sobered ;  so  did  Terry.  Whether  or  not  Bill 
Trotter  smelled  Indians,  he  acted  much  in  earnest; 
for  he  stopped  the  team,  swung  down,  and  reaching 
inside  managed  to  open  the  stage  door. 

"In  you  go,"  he  ordered. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  covered  up,"  faltered  Virgie. 

"Yes,  you  do,  Virgie,"  Terry  encouraged.  "We'll 
make  you  a  nice  hole.  It  will  be  fun,  for  a  little  way. 
You  can  pretend  you're  in  bed." 

By  working  from  both  sides  and  hauling  the  sacks 
and  packages  about  he  and  Bill  made  a  hole  between 
the  seats.  Virgie  settled  into  it.  The  seats  kept  the 
mail  and  express  stuff  from  crowding  against  her,  and 
she  had  plenty  of  air. 

"Just  leave  those  curtains  tight,"  Bill  bade.  "And 
let's  make  a  rampart  of  those  sacks  on  top,  kinder  to 
protect  our  backs." 

He  gathered  the  lines,  and  they  started  on. 

"Those  are  the  sand  hills  I  was  speaking  of. 
Beaver's  eight  or  nine  miles  beyond.  I'm  going 
through  lickity-split.  All  you'll  have  to  do  is  to  hang 
hard,  watch  both  sides  and  front  and  rear,  and,  if  you 
see  any  heads,  turn  loose  with  your  gun.  I'll  drive. 
Don't  let  any  red  rascal  touch  a  bit,  and  don't  waste  a 


TERRY  GUARDS  THE  COACH     95 

shot.  The  fellows  behind  won't  matter  so  much;  it's 
the  fellows  who  are  cutting  us  off  that'll  need  tend- 
ing to." 

The  road  ran  between  a  short  line  of  bare  bluffs 
and  the  river.  Terry  sat  tense,  his  heart  beating 
wildly,  his  gun  across  his  knees.  Bill  drove  leisurely, 
but  with  tight  rein,  his  puckered  eyes  shrewdly  scan- 
ning the  broken  slopes  to  the  left,  before. 

The  six  mules  pricked  their  ears  forward,  as  if 
they,  too,  were  suspicious. 

The  low  bluffs  were  almost  opposite,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  On  a  sudden  Bill's  lash  flew  out,  with  a 
hiss  and  a  crack;  he  whooped  explosively,  and  with 
lash  and  voice  and  shaking  lines  he  instantly  lifted  his 
six  mules  into  a  run. 

"Here  we  go !  Run,  you  long-eared  sons  of  Satan ! 
Somebody's  due  for  a  surprise-party.  I'd  rather  it'd 
be  on  the  Injuns  than  on  us." 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  RACE  WITH   THE  ENEMY 

THE  six  mules  fairly  tore.  The  harness  jingled, 
the  coach  lurched  and  bounded,  Terry  clutched  the 
seat  rail  with  one  hand,  and  braced  with  his  toes  just 
touching  the  dash;  Bill,  his  boots  firmly  planted,  his 
arms  jerking  to  the  tug  of  the  bits,  held  his  fright- 
ened team  to  their  feet  and  urged  them  on.  Inside 
rose  the  voice  of  Virgie.  Evidently  she  was  not  at  all 
pleased. 

The  dangerous  bluffs  were  flowing  past  without  a 
sign  of  attack.  The  other  end,  and  the  open  country, 
were  in  sight — when  Driver  Bill's  voice  rang  out 
sharply : 

"There  they  come!     I  told  you  so — dod  rat  'em!" 

Terry  had  seen  as  quickly.  Bursting  from  a  draw 
in  a  slope  to  the  left,  ahead,  a  dozen  horsemen  were 
scouring  across  the  little  flat  between,  bent  upon  cut- 
ting the  route  before.  They  were  Indians,  sure 
enough.  They  rode  pell-mell. 

"Some  behind,  too;  ain't  there?"  queried  Bill 
shortly. 

He  must  have  had  eyes  in  the  back  of  his  head,  for 
when  Terry  hastily  glanced  rearward,  more  Indians 


A  RACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY  97 

had  appeared,  in  their  very  wake,  pelting  like  mad 
alongside  the  road  as  if  they  had  arrived  only  a  little 
too  late. 

An  arrow  streaked  over  the  coach  and  skimmed 
upon  the  road,  before. 

"Let  'em  shoot/'  grunted  Bill.  "They  won't  do 
much  damage  that  way.  It's  those  fellows  ahead  we 
got  to  watch  out  for.  We  got  to  get  there  first  or 
else  keep  'em  from  closing  in." 

He  shouted,  and  lashed  with  lines  and  whip.  The 
mules  were  doing  nobly.  Their  dusty  hides  were  be- 
ginning to  show  blotches  of  sweat,  the  lather  from 
their  bits  drifted  back  and  flecked  the  seat,  but  they 
never  stumbled  or  wavered,  and  they  twitched  the 
heavy  coach  as  though  it  were  a  cart. 

The  race  was  going  to  be  mighty  close.  The  angle 
between  the  course  of  the  stage  and  the  course  of  the 
Indians  before  lessened  rapidly.  Bill,  his  face  gray  and 
stern,  now  and  again  peered  around  the  bulwarks  of 
sacks  behind.  The  Indians  pursuing  were  certainly 
nearer. 

"By  golly!  If  we  could  only  get  shut  of  some  o' 
that  dead  weight — do  you  reckon  you  could  crawl 
back  and  tumble  off  a  few  tons  of  sacks?" 

"I'll  try,"  said  Terry. 

"Leave  me  your  gun.  Be  blamed  careful  and  don't 
tumble  off,  yourself." 

That  was  a  ticklish  business,  to  twist  around,  and 
on  hands  and  knees  work  back  upon  the  knobby  sacks ; 
and,  while  tossed  about,  to  drag  and  shove  and  topple 
them  one  by  one  over  the  sides. 


98  ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Thut !"  An  arrow  stuck,  quivering,  in  a  sack  under 
his  very  nose.  The  Indians  were  shooting  at  him,  but 
he  had  no  time  to  think  of  that.  Off  went  sack  and 
arrow  both.  It  took  all  his  strength  to  move  some  of 
the  sacks — and  had  he  not  been  so  excited  he  prob- 
ably could  not  have  moved  them  at  all. 

The  coach  bounded  and  lurched,  Bill  shouted  at  his 
mules,  the  Indians  were  whooping  in  great  glee. 
Terry  had  to  pause  a  moment  and  gaze.  Several  of 
the  sacks  had  burst  in  their  fall ;  Indians  were  halting 
in  the  trail  to  examine;  only  three  or  four  were  now 
in  close  chase,  but  the  coach,  lightened  by  a  few  hun- 
dred pounds,  seemed  to  travel  faster.  Hurrah!  He 
shook  his  fist  at  the  pursuit,  and  cheered  wildly.  Then 
Driver  Bill's  voice  brought  him  about  with  a  jump. 

"Hey,  you !    Grab  your  gun  and  give  'em  Ned !" 

Terry  dived  blindly  for  the  seat  again.  How  he  got 
there  in  such  short  order  he  never  knew;  but  there 
he  was — at  the  same  time  grabbing  the  shot-gun  from 
between  Bill's  legs,  and  staring  for  the  danger. 

The  foremost  of  the  Indians,  who  were  bent  upon 
cutting  the  trail,  was  almost  even  with  the  lead  mules. 
His  pony's  tail  streamed  straight,  his  broad  back  was 
hunched  forward,  as  he  drew  bow  for  a  close  arrow. 

"Shoot!"  rasped  Bill. 

Terry  quickly  threw  up  his  gun  and  pulled  trigger. 
The  butt  of  the  gun  rammed  his  shoulder  violently, 
wellnigh  tilting  him  backwards ;  but  the  buckshot  sped 
true,  for  at  the  recoil  and  the  smart  report  the  Indian 
straightened  taut,  his  pony  gave  a  great  leap  aside,  the 
arrow  sailed  into  the  air,  and  off  at  a  tangent  sped  the 


A  RACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY  99 

twain,  with  the  rider  beginning  to  sway  weakly  in  his 
seat. 

"T'other  side,  t'other  side!  Just  beyond  me!" 
panted  Bill. 

An  Indian  was  forging  to  the  front  there.  He  was 
on  a  fast  horse;  he  had  cut  in  behind  the  stage  and 
was  coming  up  on  the  driver's  side. 

Terry  squirmed  about,  planted  a  knee  on  the  seat, 
and  leveled  his  gun  across  Bill's  neck;  caught  glimpse 
of  a  grinning  face  and  a  naked  arm  rising  and  falling 
as  it  plied  the  quirt.  "Bang!"  Amidst  the  belch  of 
smoke  the  face  and  all  disappeared. 

"On  your  side  again!"  warned  Bill. 

Terry  whirled,  with  empty  gun  desperately  pointed. 
The  painted  rider  opposite  the  wheel  ducked  and 
swerved  and  scurried  to  safer  distance. 

"Shove  in  your  loads  while  you  have  a  chance," 
bade  Bill.  "Got  any?" 

Terry  hastily  reloaded.  But  the  Indians  respected 
that  gun.  They  lined  up,  seventy-five  yards  away, 
and  clinging  like  monkeys  to  their  ponies  tried  to  keep 
pace  with  the  coach  while  they  launched  their  arrows. 

The  shafts  hissed  and  twinkled ;  they  glanced  across 
the  mules'  backs  and  rattled  against  the  coach  wheels 
and  body — ripped  into  the  few  sacks  still  atop,  and 
whanged  into  the  leather  curtains.  One  cut  a  gash  in 
the  right  lead  mule's  flank.  He  sprang  forward  as  if 
spurred;  Bill  whooped  joyously.  The  coach  was  be- 
ginning to  draw  ahead. 

Little  by  little  it  gained  in  the  race.  Only  one 
Indian,  a  big  fellow  in  yellow  leggins,  with  a  feather 


ioo          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

in  his  braids,  was  keeping  pace.  He  had  an  unusually 
strong  bow,  and  seemed  to  be  an  unusually  good  shot, 
for  every  arrow  that  he  launched  had  to  be  watched 
in  fear. 

"Give  him  a  dose,"  ordered  Bill.  "You  can  reach 
him." 

Terry  impulsively  blazed  away.  At  the  movement 
the  Indian  ducked  low,  and  hung  half  concealed,  while 
he  pulled  his  pony  to  widen  the  distance.  Terry 
emptied  the  other  barrel.  Mister  Indian  bobbed  up- 
right, clapped  hand  to  the  seat  of  his  leggins  (or  to 
the  spot  where  a  seat  should  have  been),  and  yelping 
with  pain  and  anger  made  off  in  earnest.  He'd  had 
enough. 

"That  fellow  will  sit  standing  up  for  a  while," 
spoke  Bill.  "Well,  I  reckon  we  win.  They're  quitting, 
aren't  they?" 

They  were.  The  other  Indians  had  slackened; 
were  about  to  turn  back.  Driver  Bill  talked  sooth- 
ingly to  his  mules,  trying  to  hold  them  down.  They 
were  lathered  and  frantic. 

"Virgie!    Are  you  all  right,  Virgie?"  Terry  called. 

"Yes,  but  I  was  nearly  squashed.  I  want  to  see  the 
Indians.  I  want  to  get  out.  Where  are  the  Indians? 
Did  you  kill  them  all  ?  There's  an  arrow  sticking  clear 
through  this  curtain !" 

"Can't  stop  to  let  you  out  now,"  informed  Bill. 
"We're  'most  to  Beaver.  You  can  get  out  there.  Do 
you  think  you  can  drive  these  mules  the  rest  of  the 
way?"  he  asked  of  Terry. 


A  RACE  WITH  THE  ENEtylY 


"Yes.    Sure.    I've  been  driving  ^otne  on  th 
fours  and  sixes  both." 

"Then  you'd  better  hold  the  lines  to  Beaver,  I  guess. 
That  durned  arrow  pesters  me  nigh  crazy;  I  can't 
hardly  grip  with  one  hand." 

And  for  the  first  time  Terry,  alarmed,  saw  an  arrow 
sticking  in  Driver  Bill's  farther  shoulder-point. 

"When  did  you  get  that  ?    I  didn't  know  about  it." 

"Didn't  pay  'special  attention  myself,"  confessed 
Bill,  "till  now  it  began  to  hurt.  I  was  too  busy  to 
think  about  arrows.  If  you'll  drive  to  Beaver  I'll  get 
shut  of  it  when  we  reach  there.  Just  let  the  mules 
take  their  own  pace,  but  keep  'em  going  enough  so 
they  don't  stiffen  up.  The  road's  clear." 

Beaver  Creek  station  proved  to  be  less  than  an  hour 
distant.  The  sun  was  rising  when  they  swung  into 
sight  of  the  single  low  building  and  the  corral  and 
sheds,  beside  the  winding  road  and  the  sluggish  Platte. 
The  mules  pricked  their  ears  and  broke  into  a  weary 
but  eager  trot. 

A  great  sight  they  all  made,  thought  Terry,  as  he 
drove  like  a  veteran  :  the  dust-and-lather-caked  mules, 
the  begrimed  coach  with  several  arrows  bobbing  on  it 
and  Virgie's  head  thrust  inquiringly  out  from  a  win- 
dow, Driver  Bill  sitting  and  steadying  the  arrow  in 
his  shoulder,  and  he,  the  size  of  a  boy,  handling  the 
ribbons. 

Smoke  was  curling  lazily  from  the  station  chimney, 
as  if  breakfast  was  being  cooked.  Somebody  was 
washing  face  and  tousled  head  in  a  tin  basin  in  front 
of  the  house.  A  black  dog  was  ambling  about  in  the 


102          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

bare  yard.  A  man  was  busy  in  the  corral  among  the 
feseV  ' 

As  the  coach  lumbered  on,  Driver  Bill  uttered  a 
tremendous  yell — the  regulation  stage-driver's  yell, 
but  louder  than  usual. 

"Hoo-wah-hoo-oo !"  he  bawled,  and  with  his  left 
arm  cracked  his  whip  like  a  pistol  shot. 

The  tired  mules  jumped,  Terry  gallantly  held  them, 
the  person  at  the  wash-basin  was  staring,  so  was  the 
man  in  the  corral,  so  was  the  black  dog,  and  a  figure 
had  appeared  in  the  station  doorway. 

To  grind  of  brake  under  Bill's  boot  they  drew  up 
amidst  a  flourish  of  triumph  that  evidently  created  a 
sensation;  Terry  tossed  the  lines  to  the  ground,  and 
was  about  to  look  around  before  climbing  down,  when 
Virgie  cried  out  excitedly,  the  wash-basin  personage 
exclaimed,  "Gee  whizz!  That's  Terry  Richards! 
Hello,  Terry!"  the  person  in  the  doorway  bolted  out, 
cheering,  and  the  dog  barked  and  gamboled. 

The  wash-basin  figure  was  George  Stanton,  the  man 
from  the  doorway  was  Harry  Revere,  and  the  dog  was 
good  old  Shep ! 

Terry  scarcely  could  believe  his  eyes  and  ears. 
Virgie  was  clamoring  to  be  let  out — out  she  tumbled, 
to  be  hugged  by  George  and  grabbed  by  Harry  and 
kissed  by  Shep ;  Terry  was  down  in  a  jiffy,  also,  into 
the  arms  of  all,  including  Shep:  Driver  Bill  painfully 
followed. 

"Did  you  get  our  letter  already?" 

"Have  you  been  in  a  fight?" 

"Jiminy,  but  we're  glad  to  see  you!" 


A  RACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY  103 

"Say,  somebody  help  me  get  rid  of  this  arrow  first," 
reminded  Bill  Trotter.  "It's  worked  pretty  loose. 
Tain't  in  far.  Guess  we  can  cut  it  out  with  a  sharp 
knife;  else  shove  it  on  through.  Rub  those  mules 
down  mighty  well,"  he  added  to  the  man  who  had 
come  from  the  corral.  "They've  out-run  a  whole 
passel  of  Injun  mustangs  and  Ben  Holladay  ought  to 
give  'em  a  medal." 

"Come  into  the  house  and  we'll  get  at  that  arrow," 
bade  Harry.  "Everybody  come  in.  Breakfast's 
ready.  We  can  eat  and  talk  both." 

"Do  you  want  to  wash,  or  anything?"  demanded 
George  of  Terry.  "Where  was  the  fight  ?  How  many 
did  you  kill?  How  did  you  get  here  so  quick?  How 
far  did  you  drive  ?  Are  you  going  to  stay  ?" 

"Wait  till  I  tell  you,"  sputtered  Terry,  washing  up 
in  a  hurry.  "What  are  you  doing  here?  Isn't  Harry 
riding  express  any  more?  How  did  you  know  we 
were  coming?  There  didn't  anybody  pass  us,  you 
bet.  I'm  the  messenger — did  you  know  that?  I've 
learned  to  drive,  too.  I  can  sleep  sitting  up." 

"Where's  my  mother?"  interrupted  Virgie.  "The 
bush-whackers  burned  us  out  and  I  hit  them  with  a 
broom  and  Terry  chased  Pine  Knot  Ike  with  a  pistol 
and  we  had  our  own  stage  and  helped  run  it  all  the 
way  from  Kansas,  and  I  hid  in  it  from  the  Injuns — 
and  I  want  my  mother." 

"She's  down  at  Denver,"  explained  George.  "Dad's 
in  the  army,  but  all  the  rest  of  us  are  here — Harry 
and  Shep  and  Duke  and  Jenny  and  me — I,  I  mean; 
and  we're  keeping  station.  We  wrote  you  folks  about 


104          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

it.  Harry's  agent  and  I'm  hostler;  and  we  said  if 
you  wanted  to  come  out  and  let  your  mother  stay  with 
your  father,  you  could  have  a  job,  too.  We'll  need 
another  hostler.  The  other  man  we've  got  is  going  to 
leave.  Did  the  bush-whackers ?" 

"Grub!"  called  Harry  from  the  station  house. 
"Come  a-running." 

There  had  been  lots  of  questions  without  answers, 
but  at  breakfast  matters  finally  were  cleared  up. 
Driver  Bill  had  told  his  story  of  the  Indian  fight; 
now  Terry  and  Virgie  told  about  the  bush-whackers 
and  the  trip  out ;  and  then  Harry  explained  about  him- 
self and  George. 

"You  see,  I'm  station-keeper  here  now,  and  George 
is  a  hostler " 

"Gosh,  I  didn't  know  you  fellows  were  all  ac- 
quainted," said  Driver  Bill. 

"We  sure  are.  We're  old  pards,"  laughed  Harry. 
"But  we  didn't  have  any  reason  to  mention  it.  Well, 
anyway,  I'm  station  boss " 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  asked  Terry. 

"About  a  week.  I  quit  riding  express.  And  I  put 
George  in  as  hostler,  and  we  moved  all  our  live-stock 
here — Shep  and  Duke  and  Jenny.  Pete,  there,"  and 
Harry  nodded  at  the  other  man,  who  had  come  from 
the  stables,  "wants  to  leave.  I'll  need  another  hostler 
to  help  George  with  the  twelve  head  of  stock  while  I 
cook  the  meals.  This  is  a  home  station  and  I  aim  to 
give  everybody  apple-pie  three  times  a  day.  It  takes 
time  to  make  apple-pie." 


A  RACE  WITH  THE  ENEMY    105 

"Do  you  want  to  be  a  hostler,  Terry?"  queried 
George. 

"I'll  stay,"  cried  Virgie.    "I'll  stay  and  help  cook." 

"Aw,  we  don't  need  a  girl  around,"  answered 
George.  "We  may  have  to  fight  Injuns.  You  go  to 
Denver." 

"Yes;  I'd  as  lief  be  hostler,"  asserted  Terry.  "I'm 
looking  for  a  job.  But  now  I'm  messenger.  I've  got 
to  go  to  Denver,  too.  Then  I'll  come  back." 

"Needn't  go  unless  you  choose  to,"  spoke  Bill.  "I'm 
going  clean  on  to. Denver  myself,  to  get  this  shoulder 
fixed  up  proper.  That  arrow  may've  been  pizened. 
I'll  messenger  for  that  far,  and  look  out  for  the  gal. 
Pete  can  drive  to  Bijou,  where  we  pick  up  the  next 
driver." 

"Sure.     I'll  drive,"  said  Pete. 

"Don't  we  have  to  go  back  for  those  mail  sacks?" 

"Not  on  your  gizzard !  That's  why  those  Govern- 
ment documents  are  taken  along — to  keep  the  Injuns 
quiet.  The  whole  tribe'll  be  reading  now  for  a  month, 
and  the  squaws  will  stick  their  legs  through  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sacks  and  draw  the  pucker  string  'round 
their  necks,  and  give  full-dress  parties  to  all  their 
friends  and  relatives." 

Thanks  to  Bill  Trotter  the  arrangements  were 
made.  Terry  agreed  to  stay,  in  reply  to  Harry's  offer 
and  the  letter  that  he  hadn't  received  yet.  Virgie 
decided  that  she'd  rather  go  on,  with  Mr.  Trotter,  be- 
cause then  to-morrow  she'd  see  her  mother. 

In  about  an  hour  the  coach  rolled  on,  Pete  driving 


io6          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

a  fresh  team  of  sixes,  Bill  sitting  beside  him  as  mes- 
senger, and  Virgie  waving  good-bye  from  between 
them. 

Terry   proceeded   to   get   acquainted   with   Beaver 
Creek  home  station  of  the  Overland  Stage  Road. 


CHAPTER  X 

BEAVER   CREEK   HOME   STATION 

THE  stage  from  Denver  was  not  due  until  noon,  so 
there  was  ample  time  for  the  inspection  of  Beaver 
Creek  Station.  As  Harry  had  said,  while  clearing 
off  the  table  after  the  west-bound  stage  had  gone  on, 
"Beaver  Creek  wasn't  large,  but  it  had  plenty  of  room 
to  grow  in." 

It  sat  here  by  itself,  in  a  lonely  stretch  of  flat  coun- 
try, on  the  south  side  of  the  stage  road.  Just  across 
the  stage  road  was  a  crooked  slough;  and  beyond  the 
slough  was  the  South  Platte  River. 

The  next  station  on  the  west  was  Bijou,  twenty 
miles — with  the  road  between  a  hard  pull  among 
sloughs  and  sand-hills.  At  Bijou  the  stage  road  left 
the  Platte  River  and  turned  to  the  south  on  the  cut-off 
for  Denver,  which  was  120  miles  from  Beaver. 

The  nearest  station  on  the  east  was  American 
Ranch,  twelve  miles.  Julesburg,  where  the  main  stage 
road  turned  northward  on  its  through  route  to  Salt 
Lake  and  California,  was  seventy-seven  miles. 

So  Beaver  Creek  home  station  was  not  at  all 
crowded ! 

The  station  house  was  a  low  building  of  sod  walls 
107 


108          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

three  feet  thick,  and  sod  roof.  It  had  one  room, 
divided  off  by  muslin  partitions  into  dining-room,  bed- 
room and  kitchen.  The  muslin  broke  the  view,  but 
that  was  about  all.  Anybody  could  hear  right  through 
it,  and  the  shadows  cast  on  it  were  very  funny,  from 
the  other  side.  The  ceiling  was  muslin,  also,  to  keep 
the  dust  from  sifting  down.  The  floor  was  clay. 
There  were  three  small  square  windows,  one  beside  the 
door  and  one  in  the  center  of  either  side  wall,  closed 
by  wooden  shutters  instead  of  glass  panes. 

The  dining-room  or  living-room  had  a  fire-place  and 
large  flue ;  the  kitchen  had  a  rusty  stove  and  chimney ; 
the  bed-room  had  several  bunks  softened  with  hay 
mattresses  and  blankets;  there  was  a  rough  board 
table  to  eat  from,  and  hand-made  chairs  and  stools 
with  seats  of  cowhide. 

On  the  wall  hung  a  shot-gun  and  an  old  smooth- 
bore musket.  George  wore  his  cap-and-ball  revolver. 
It  used  to  have  a  wooden  hammer,  for  looks,  but  now 
he  had  equipped  it  with  a  real  hammer,  and  it  was  a 
"sure-'nough  scalp-getter/'  he  said. 

The  corral  was  of  poles,  and  the  stable,  at  the  end 
of  it,  was  of  rough-hewn  cotton  wood  logs,  chinked 
after  a  fashion  but  pretty  airy,  under  a  dirt  roof. 

There  was  a  well,  from  which  the  water  was  drawn 
by  a  bucket  and  windlass.  The  water  was  only  seep- 
age water,  and  tasted  rather  flat,  but  it  was  wet. 

Altogether,  as  Harry  remarked,  this  was  a  snug 
little  outfit,  and  about  the  best  station  on  the  road! 
On  a  clear  day  you  could  see  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
like  clouds,  a  hundred  miles  west ;  the  slough  was  full 


BEAVER  CREEK  HOME  STATION      109 

of  ducks  and  the  brush  was  full  of  rabbits ;  two  stages 
passed  through  every  day  and  stopped  for  meals,  news 
from  Denver  was  only  twenty- four  hours  old,  and  a 
sod  house  was  the  warmest  and  the  coolest  kind  of  a 
house,  winter  and  summer.  Indians  could  not  burn  tt, 
either.  It  was  a  regular  fort. 

For  the  "privilege"  of  living  on  such  luxury  he  was 
paid  $60  a  month,  as  station-keeper,  and  got  a  profit 
from  the  meals,  as  cook;  and  George  and  Terry  were 
paid  $40  a  month  each,  as  hostlers.  Could  anything 
be  grander! 

"Why,  boys,  we're  kings;  we're  monarchs  of  all 
we  survey,"  declared  Harry  that  night  as  they  three 
sat  at  the  table  in  the  dining-room,  lighted  by  a  coal- 
oil  lantern,  and  Shep  snored  upon  the  floor.  "There's 
nobody  bigger — except  the  drivers.  Of  course,  a  stage 
driver  is  the  head  king  on  the  Overland.  We'll  make 
Beaver  Creek  the  most  popular  station  between  Denver 
and  Atchison.  People  will  all  look  forward  to  stop- 
ping at  Beaver  Creek,  where  there's  apple-pie  three 
times  a  day,  and  two  kinds  of  rabbits,  and  seven  kinds 
of  ducks." 

"Aw,  shucks!"  complained  George.  "I  heard  Bill 
Trotter  say  he  wished  you'd  turn  your  dried-apple 
slices  other  end  'round,  once  in  a  while;  and  I'm  so 
full  of  duck  that  I  quack." 

"Try  rabbit  then  for  a  spell.  They  don't  quack," 
retorted  Harry.  "Or  else  help  yourself  to  the  salt 
pork — but  that's  expensive.  Anyway,  I  mean  to  have 
our  meals  the  richest,  and  our  animals  the  glossiest, 
and  our  harness  the  oiliest,  and  our  service  the  quick- 


no          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

est,  and  our  faces  the  smiliest,  of  any  station  on  the 
road.  If  we  stick  here,  people  will  want  to  settle  with 
us  and  make  a  city.  They'll  hate  to  go  on.  I'm  look- 
ing forward  to  having  Ben  Holladay  as  a  guest.  They 
say  he  leaves  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  on  the  table 
when  he's  pleased.  That  will  buy  quite  a  heft  of  dried 
apples/' 

Harry  rattled  on,  half  joking  but  enthusiastic. 

Terry  was  beginning  to  feel  at  home.  It  seemed 
good  to  be  with  Harry  and  George  again.  They  had 
swapped  all  their  news.  He  had  made  the  rounds  of 
the  whole  establishment — had  spoken  to  Duke,  the 
half -buffalo,  and  Jenny,  the  gaunt  yellow  mule,  who 
had  been  the  faithful  team  driven  by  him  and  Harry 
from  Kansas  to  the  "Cherry  Creek  diggin's"  of  Den- 
ver; and  had  helped  look  after  the  six  mules  and  the 
extra  six  horses  in  the  corral. 

The  Denver  stage  had  arrived.  He  and  George,  as 
hostlers,  had  changed  the  teams  in  expert  fashion, 
handed  the  bunch  of  lines  to  Tommy  Ryan,  the  east- 
bound  driver,  and  stood,  with  their  hands  on  their 
hips  and  their  hats  tipped  back,  watching  the  stage 
whirl  on. 

Then  they  went  in  to  eat  the  dinner  that  Harry  had 
saved  out  for  them.  Then  while  Harry  washed  the 
dishes  they  watered  the  cooled-off  team  and  finished 
rubbing  them  down,  in  the  stalls,  and  threw  them  a 
few  mouth fuls  of  hay.  Then  they  took  the  shot-gun 
and  the  musket  and  ammunition,  and  got  some  ducks 
at  the  slough. 

The  slough  was  fairly  alive  with  ducks.    It  was  only 


BEAVER  CREEK  HOME  STATION      in 

150  yards  from  the  house — a  long,  sinuous  slough, 
with  high  banks  and  considerable  marsh,  and  thickly 
grown  to  bright  green  weeds  and  rushes.  There  was 
no  trouble  in  getting  ducks;  a  fellow  could  take  his 
pick,  and  Shep  would  fetch  them  out. 

The  main  trouble  lay  in  eating  them,  according  to 
George. 

"It's  duck,  rabbit  and  apple  pie,  day  in  and  day  out. 
Golly,  but  I'd  like  an  egg,  or  some  butter  that  isn't 
canned!  Our  potatoes  are  all  sprouty,  too.  We  did 
have  bacon,  but  Harry's  saving  that  for  Mr.  Holladay. 
He  won't  be  through  till  fall,  though." 

At  evening  they  fed  and  watered  the  stock,  pick- 
eted Jenny  and  Duke  in  fresh  grazing,  and  got  ready 
for  the  early  stage  in  the  morning. 

Besides  Duke  and  Jenny  they  had  twelve  stage  ani- 
mals, sometimes  horses,  sometimes  mules,  sometimes 
both,  to  take  good  care  of.  The  freshest  team  of  six 
went  out  with  the  stage;  the  team  just  in  were  en- 
titled to  twenty- four  hours'  rest ;  so  there  had  to  be  a 
team  for  the  stage  in  between,  going  the  opposite 
direction.  That  was  the  system.  The  animals  were 
all  top  animals,  because  the  runs  both  ways  were 
hard  runs. 

With  baled  hay  at  twenty-five  dollars  a  ton  and 
corn  at  seven  cents  a  pound,  the  keep  of  the  stage 
stock  was  quite  an  item  for  Ben  Holladay.  Each 
animal  ate  twenty-five  pounds  of  corn  a  day. 

After  supper  there  wasn't  much  to  do  at  the  station. 
So  the  "hands"  went  to  bed  early,  for  they  had  to 


H2          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

turn  out  before  sun-up — Harry  to  cook  breakfast  and 
the  hostlers  to  attend  to  the  stock. 

This  first  night  Terry  managed  a  letter  to  his 
mother,  telling  her  of  the  bush-whackers'  attack  and 
the  trip  west,  and  the  great  luck  that  he  and  Virgie 
had  had  all  along  the  way.  She  would  have  no  reason 
to  worry  now.  He  also  decided  to  send  "Wild  Bill's" 
money  back  to  him  at  once. 

From  Denver,  Virgie — or  Mrs.  Stanton,  rather — 
forwarded  a  change  of  underclothes;  and  it  was  high 
time.  Sunday  was  wash-day  at  Beaver  Creek.  They 
each  was  supposed  to  wash  out  a  flannel  shirt,  a  ban- 
danna handkerchief,  a  pair  of  stockings,  and  a  suit  of 
underwear.  Before  his  outfit  came,  Terry  had  to  take 
a  sun-bath,  in  his  trousers,  while  his  other  clothes 
dried. 

The  summer  flowed  smoothly.  The  up  and  down 
stages,  with  Bill  Trotter  or  Tommy  Ryan  on  the  box, 
passed  regularly ;  every  little  while  there  were  freight- 
ers or  emigrants;  no  Indians  bothered;  the  ducks, 
except  the  young  broods,  had  disappeared,  but  the  rab- 
bits stayed,  and  so  did  the  dried-apple  pies. 

Then,  one  noon  before  mounting  the  box  of  the 
stage  from  Bijou,  Bill  beckoned  Terry  aside. 

"Say,"  said  Bill  shortly,  "tell  your  cook  to  lay  off 
on  those  apple  pies.  Suffering  cats !  Seems  as  though 
there  was  an  epidemic  of  dried-apple  pie  from  Denver 
clean  to  Kearney.  It's  dried-apple  pie  beginning  with 
Genesis  right  through  to  Revelations.  But  this  Beaver 
Creek  station  is  the  wust  on  the  road.  Passengers  are 
all  kicking.  It  give  'em  a  bad  opinion  of  the  Over- 


BEAVER  CREEK  HOME  STATION     113 

land.  Can't  that  cook  invent  anything  except  apple 
pie?  The  human  stomach  won't  stand  for  apple  pie 
more'n  twice  a  day  the  year  'round.  It's  mighty  hard 
on  us  drivers." 

"I'll  tell  Harry,"  promised  Terry.  "We're  sick  of 
apple  pie,  too."  But  Harry  couldn't  see  it. 

"Those  people  are  getting  too  finicky.  What  do 
they  expect  for  a  dollar?  I'm  a  master  hand  at  apple 
pies.  Besides,  they're  cheap  and  lasting.  One  pie 
sometimes  lasts  several  days.  A  lasting  kind  of  grub 
is  what  travelers  need,  don't  they?" 

On  his  trip  back,  Driver  Bill  passed  out  an  envelope. 

"Here's  a  letter  for  you,"  he  said  to  Harry.  "I'll 
leave  it  on  the  table." 

It  was  addressed :  "Champion  Pie  Slinger,  Beaver 
Creek  Station,  Colorado."  So  Harry  waited  until  the 
stage  had  gone ;  then  he  opened  it  and  read  it. 

"I'll  be  switched!"  he  grumbled,  quite  red.  "Ex- 
pect whoever  wrote  that  thinks  he's  funny." 

Terry  and  George  seized  it  and  howled.  It  was  a 
poem. 

To  Whom  This  May  Concern 

We  loathe!  Abhor!  Detest!  Despise! 

Abominate  dried-apple  pies ! 

We  like  good  bread,  we  like  good  meat, 

Or  anything  that's  good  to  eat ; 

But  of  all  poor  grub  beneath  the  skies 

The  poorest  is  dried-apple  pies. 

Give  us  a  tooth-ache  or  sore  eyes 

But  never  more  such  kind  of  pies ! 


114          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

The  farmer  takes  his  gnarliest  fruit, 
'Tis  wormy,  bitter,  and  hard  to  boot; 
He  leaves  the  hulls  to  make  us  cough, 
And  doesn't  take  half  the  peelings  off; 
Then  on  some  dirty  cord  they're  strung, 
And  from  some  chamber  window  hung; 
And  there  they  serve  as  roost  for  flies 
Until  they're  ready  to  make  pies! 
Tread  on  our  corns,  or  tell  us  lies, 
But  don't  pass  us  dried-apple  pies! 

— ALL  ALONG  THE  LINE. 

"That's  mighty  small  encouragement  for  a  hard- 
working cook,"  complained  Harry.  "What  with  hav- 
ing to  ship  stuff  500  miles  at  ten  and  fifteen  cents  a 
pound,  and  having  it  five  weeks  on  the  road,  do  those 
fellows  expect  nice  fresh  apples  with  all  the  water 
left  in  them?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    JOKE    ON    THE    SCAR-FACE 

"INJUNS!"  announced  George,  from  outside  the 
doorway,  and  rushing  in  to  buckle  on  his  cap-and-ball 
revolver.  "A  whole  pack  of  'em !" 

It  was  after  dinner  on  a  hot  day  in  late  summer. 
Several  weeks  had  passed  since  the  apple-pie  "kick" 
delivered  by  "poem."  Harry's  hurt  feelings  had  long 
since  healed.  In  fact,  he  was  glad  to  quit  making  pies, 
for  the  Beaver  Creek  station  was  down  to  plain  ra- 
tions. Even  dried  apples  were  difficult  to  import,  as 
the  prices  of  provisions  rose  on  account  of  the  war, 
and  the  freight  moved  slowly  on  the  long  haul  across 
the  parched,  dusty  Western  land. 

"What  do  you  wear  that  cannon  for?"  demanded 
Terry,  as  he  and  Harry  followed  George  out. 

"So  as  to  let  'em  see  we're  armed,"  retorted  George. 

Indians  were  approaching  from  the  west.  There 
was  quite  a  band  of  them,  men  and  women  both,  on 
ponies,  riding  in  by  the  stage  road. 

"  'Rapahos,  I  reckon,"  said  Harry.  "Coming  to 
beg.  Well,  they  won't  get  much.  But  we'll  have  to 
keep  our  eyes  on  them.  They'll  steal  your  revolver 
off  of  you,  George,  if  you  aren't  careful." 


n6          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"I  rather  guess  they  won't,"  George  blustered. 
"Shucks !"  he  added.  "They're  only  Left  Hand's  band. 
They're  peaceful." 

A  dirty,  unkempt  lot  they  were,  as  they  tumbled  off 
their  ponies  in  front  of  the  station,  and  shuffled  for- 
ward. 

"How?"  greeted  Left  Hand,  extending  his  paw  to 
shake  all  'round.  He  recognized  Terry  at  once. 
"How?  Where  'um  squaw?" 

"Denver.     Not  here." 

"You  sell  'um?" 

"No." 

"Six  pony,"  Left  Hand  insisted. 

"Not  mine.  She  his.  Ask  him,"  directed  Terry, 
pointing  at  George. 

"Six  pony,"  Left  Hand  repeated,  to  George. 

"You  get  out,"  answered  George.  "Six  bullets," 
and  he  tapped  his  weighty  pistol.  He  had  a  great  idea 
of  that  pistol. 

Left  Hand  grinned  and  grunted. 

"Huh!     Little  boy,  big  bang;  all  smoke,  no  hurt." 

With  that  he  turned  away,  leaving  George  red  and 
Terry  chuckling. 

At  smell  of  the  Indians  Shep  had  sneaked  inside  the 
house  to  hide  and  growl.  No  Indians  were  good  In- 
dians to  Shep.  The  majority  of  the  Arapahos  were 
pressing  about  the  door,  so  Harry  had  retreated  also, 
to  bar  the  way. 

"Shoog?"  Left  Hand  was  hinting.  "Little  shoog 
(sugar)." 

Harry  shook  his  head  violently. 


A  JOKE  ON  THE  SCAR-FACE          117 

"No  sugar.     No  anything." 

"Tobac'P    Give  tobac'?" 

"No.     No  sugar,  no  tobacco." 

"Whisk'.    How  much  for  whisk'  ?    Give  whisk'  ?" 

"No  whiskey  on  the  place,"  asserted  Harry.  "Puck- 
achee  with  you!  No  give,  no  trade.  We're  broke — 
down  to  hard  pan.  Need  everything  ourselves." 

"The  dog-gone  beggars,"  scolded  George.  "For  half 
a  cent  I'd  turn  my  old  scalp-getter  loose  on  'em  and 
make  'em  puckachee  a-scooting.  That's  what !  Maybe 
they  don't  know  this  gun's  bad  medicine.  Who's 
afraid  of  'Rapahos?" 

"See  here,  you  ought  not  to  talk  that  way  around 
Indians,  unless  you  mean  business,"  spoke  a  voice  near. 
"You  might  get  into  trouble." 

George  and  Terry  whirled  about,  surprised.  It  was 
an  Indian,  and  he  looked  just  like  the  other  Indians, 
but  his  language  was  good  English. 

"Aw I  didn't  suppose  they'd  understand," 

George  stammered. 

"They're  likely  to  understand  more  than  you  think 
they  do,  young  man.  They've  got  ears  and  eyes,  and 
they're  no  fools." 

"Say!"  gasped  Terry.  "Are  you  a  'Rapaho? 
What's  your  name?" 

But  the  Indian,  who  wore  a  brass  ring  in  either  ear 
and  another  in  his  nose,  suddenly  changed.  He  just 
stared  blankly  at  Terry,  drew  the  blanket,  that  he  had 
partly  dropped,  high  around  his  ears,  and,  grunting 
"No  savvy,"  stalked  away. 

A  moment  before,  he  had  talked  like  a  white  man; 


n8          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

now  he  acted  like  a  red  man.     Perhaps  he  did  it  to 
show  the  boys  that  they  could  never  be  sure. 

They  had  no  time  for  discussing  him.  Harry 
sounded  hard  beset,  inside  the  station. 

Some  of  the  Arapahos  had  pushed  past  him  on 
the  threshold;  so  he  had  gone  in  after  them,  to  pro- 
tect his  goods.  During  the  summer  he  had  laid  in  a 
little  stock  of  stuff  to  sell  to  emigrants  and  other  trav- 
elers, and  whatever  the  Indians  saw,  they  usually 
wanted. 

"No,  no!"  Harry  was  storming.  "No  shoog,  no 
tobac',  no  cofF,  no  whisk' — no  nothing!  No  give,  no 
trade.  Too  much  crowd.  Go  outdoors.  Drop  that, 
you!  Look  out  for  the  dog!" 

Shep  was  barking  wildly.  The  Arapahos  might  be 
seen  pointing  and  trying  to  finger,  with  Harry  stoutly 
shoving  them  away  from  the  short  counter. 

"Guess  we'd  better  go  in,  ourselves,"  laughed  Terry 
— when  suddenly  Harry's  voice  rose  angrily. 

"Leave  that  alone !     Here — stop  thief !" 

Out  from  the  doorway  burst  a  large  Indian,  with  a 
whitish  scar  down  one  cheek.  He  ran  a  few  steps, 
drew  a  half -pint  yellow-glass  bottle  from  underneath 
his  blanket,  rapidly  extracted  the  cork  with  his  teeth, 
and,  tilting  the  bottle  on  his  lips,  drained  it  instantly. 

Harry  had  pursued,  but  was  too  late,  and  stopped 
short. 

"By  ginger,  if  you  can  stand  that !"  he  panted. 

"I  told  you.    It's  worth  six  bits,  too !" 

"Oh,  I  know!"  cried  George.  "So  do  you,  Terry! 
He  stole  a  bottle  of — gee  whizz !  Look  at  him !" 


A  JOKE  ON  THE  SCAR-FACE          119 

As  soon  as  he  had  drained  the  bottle  the  big  Indian 
had  thrown  it  away.  For  a  moment  he  stood  pleased 
and  defiant,  as  if  he  had  done  something  smart,  while 
he  slowly  rubbed  his  stomach  with  the  palm  of  a  dirty 
hand.  But  his  face  began  to  stiffen,  with  a  look  of 
wonder ;  his  hand  paused,  and  tightened ;  his  eyes  wid- 
ened, his  fingers  gripped — — 

"Wow!"  cheered  Harry.  "Hi  yi!  Heap  medicine 
dance!" 

For,  without  further  warning,  the  big  Indian  had 
leaped  straight  into  the  air;  and  the  second  that  he 
landed'  he  commenced  to  run  in  a  circle  like  a  jack- 
rabbit.  Every  now  and  then  he  leaped,  as  before ;  then 
he  doubled  over,  and  darted ;  then  he  sprang  aside,  and 
dived,  and  dodged.  And  he  yelled  frantically. 

"Whoop!     Ki-yi!     Whoop!     Whoo-oop!     Ki-yi!" 

The  Indians  outside,  and  the  other  Indians  who  had 
followed,  at  first  gazed  with  amazement — until  they 
broke  into  loud  laughter,  and  joined  in  his  song. 

"Whoop!  Ki-yi!  Whoop!  Whoo-oop!  Ki-yi! 
Ki-yi-yi!" 

Faster  and  faster  gyrated  the  big  Indian,  clearing  a 
circle;  until  with  a  last  tremendous  "Whoo-oop!"  he 
charged,  half  doubled,  for  his  pony,  snatched  bridle 
thong,  plunged  aboard,  and,  hammering  madly,  rode 
full  speed  right  across  the  plains,  leaving  a  wake  of 
dust. 

"Keep  it !"  yelled  Harry  after  him.  "Price  was  six 
bits,  but  I've  had  a  dollar's  worth  out  of  it."  And  he 
wiped  his  eyes. 


120          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"What  was  it?"  queried  Terry  breathlessly,  of 
George. 

"P.  A.  X.  Pain  Killer— a  whole  bottle!  Bet  he 
thought  it  was  flavoring  extract.  It  sure  got  action, 
didn't  it?" 

The  other  Arapahos  all  thought  this  was  a  great 
joke.  It  seemed  to  make  them  very  good-natured, 
and  also  a  little  cautious,  for  they  bothered  Harry  no 
more. 

"Huh,  huh !"  gurgled  Left  Hand.  "Heap  medicine, 
heap  dance!  Strong  water.  Make  legs  go." 

"He  was  bound  to  have  whiskey,  and  that's  the 
nearest  thing  to  it,  he  figured,"  explained  Harry  to  the 
boys.  "One  teaspoon ful's  a  dose,  in  water — but  he 
didn't  wait  for  water." 

"It  served  him  right."  The  English-speaking  In- 
dian with  the  ring  in  his  nose  said  that.  "You  want 
to  watch  out,  though.  He's  not  an  Arapaho;  he's  a 
half  Cheyenne  from  one  of  the  dog-soldier  bands. 
He's  liable  to  have  a  bad  heart  toward  you  after 
this." 

"What'll  he  try  to  do?" 

"The  buffalo  are  getting  scarce,  and  yours  is  fat. 
Some  morning  you'll  wake  up  with  that  buffalo  and 
mule  both  gone,  if  you  don't  corral  them  at  night. 
The  Cheyennes  and  Arapahos  in  the  south  are  grow- 
ing restless,  too.  Left  Hand's  all  right,  but  he  doesn't 
control  the  other  bands.  They  see  that  the  white  sol- 
diers have  gone  to  war.  There  may  be  trouble  along 
the  stage  line.  I  thought  I'd  warn  you." 

"Thanks,"  answered  Harry;  and  his  jaw  was  set. 


A  JOKE  ON  THE  SCAR-FACE          121 

"We'll  hold  the  fort.  I'll  lay  in  some  more  Pain 
Killer." 

The  Indian  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  sauntered 
away. 

"Who  was  that  man  with  the  Arapahos,  who  spoke 
English  as  good  as  anybody?"  later  asked  Terry. 

"That  man?  He's  an  educated  'Rapaho — went  to 
school  in  the  East.  They  call  him  Friday,  and  he's  a 
great  chap,  except  that  he  lives  the  same  as  an  Injun." 

The  Arapahos  stayed  only  a  short  time  longer; 
then  they  rode  away,  back  on  the  trail.  They  had  a 
camp  at  Beaver  Creek,  three  miles  west,  but  were  going 
to  break  it  in  the  morning. 

During  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  during  the 
evening  the  three  proprietors  of  Beaver  Creek  station 
frequently  chuckled  at  the  picture  of  the  scar-face  In- 
dian performing  under  the  bidding  of  the  Pain  Killer. 
George  had  taken  a  dose  of  the  Pain  Killer  once,  for 
a  stomach-ache.  He  said  that  a  teaspoon ful  burned 
like  fire.  What  a  whole  half  pint  would  do  might  be 
imagined. 

"It  would  have  stretched  stiff  anybody  but  an  In- 
dian," declared  Harry.  "An  Indian  is  tanned  in- 
side and  out.  I've  seen  one  drink  soapy  dish-water, 
for  the  grease ;  and  to  swallow  a  piece  of  plug  tobacco 
is  a  real  sweet  dessert." 

In  the  morning  Division  Agent  Bob  Spotswood  got 
off  the  stage  from  Julesburg.  He  made  regular  trips 
over  the  Denver  division,  back  and  forth.  This  time 
he  brought  great  news. 

"Holladay's  on  his  way  across,"  he  announced  to 


122          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Harry.  "He  passed  Cottonwood  yesterday,  and  they 
wired  ahead  to  Julesburg  to  keep  the  line  clear.  He'll 
be  coming  right  through  to  Denver,  and  you'll  get  him. 
Have  your  best  team  ready.  The  boys  all  along  the 
road  are  laying  their  prize  stock  so  as  to  make  sure  to 
catch  him.  He's  in  a  hurry." 

"What  time,  Mr.  Spotswood?" 

"About  two  hours  before  you  expect  him.  But  he'll 
probably  want  something  to  eat." 

"What  does  he  eat?"  asked  Harry,  excited. 

"The  best  there  is.  He's  a  good  liver.  He  was 
raised  in  Missouri." 

"Oh,  gosh !"  sighed  Harry.  "This  is  the  off  season. 
Haven't  got  anything  but  salt  pork  and  bacon,  bread 
and  potatoes.  Will  he  eat  apple  pie  ?  I  reckon  maybe 
I  can  smother  him  a  rabbit,  Southern  style." 

"Do  what  you  can,"  bade  Agent  Spotswood.  "He's 
fond  of  the  table.  I'd  like  to  make  him  pleased  with 
this  division.  I  hear  tell  that  he's  calculating  on  send- 
ing the  Salt  Lake  coaches  through  this  way  and  quit- 
ting the  turn-off  at  Julesburg.  That'll  put  Beaver 
Creek  on  the  main  line,  and  mean  big  business." 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  reported  Harry,  after  the 
stage  had  left,  to  Terry  and  George.  "Beaver  Creek 
station  on  the  main  line !  We'll  get  all  the  Salt  Lake 
and  California  travel,  besides  the  Denver!  Hooray! 
We'll  be  some  pumpkins.  Now  it's  up  to  us  to  make 
good — give  him  a  pleasant  memory  of  Beaver  Creek. 
There's  no  knowing  what  he  might  do  for  us.  He 
might  make  this  a  sort  of  summer  headquarters.  Wish 
our  ducks  didn't  go  away.  But  there's  the  slough; 


A  JOKE  ON  THE  SCAR-FACE          123 

he  could  turn  it  into  a  lake,  and  build  himself  a  $10,000 
lodge  on  it ;  put  on  boats,  and  advertise  it  as  a  resort. 
Let's  slick  up  the  yard.  We'll  polish  off  Jenny  and 
Duke,  and  tie  red  calico  'round  their  necks.  There 
mustn't  be  a  speck  of  dust  on  any  of  those  stage  ani- 
mals, either.  And  after  chores  I  want  you  two  fel- 
lows to  ride  out  through  the  brush  and  get  the  fattest 
rabbits  you  can  find.  No  jacks;  get  cotton-tails." 

"But  there  aren't  any  fat  rabbits  this  time  of  year," 
objected  George.  "It's  the  wrong  season." 

"You'll  find  'em,"  Harry  encouraged.  "Tell  'em 
Ben  Holladay's  coming.  He's  got  to  have  fat  ones. 
I  reckon  I'll  beat  up  a  batch  of  biscuits,  too.  And  I'll 
try  him  with  an  apple  pie.  Those  dried  apples  ought 
to  be  used  some  way." 

"Harry's  gone  plumb  wild,"  scoffed  George,  as,  in 
the  twilight  this  evening,  he  and  Terry  rode  out  on 
Jenny,  the  yellow  mule,  and  one  of  the  stage  horses, 
with  the  musket  and  the  shotgun,  into  the  brush  for 
rabbits.  "You'd  think  the  king  of  England  was  com- 
ing to  stay  a  week !" 

"Well,  Mr.  Holladay  is  a  sort  of  king,"  Terry  re- 
minded. "He  owns  more  horses  than  a  king  does, 
and  he  bosses  all  the  way  from  the  Missouri  River  to 
California." 

"I  don't  guess  he  bosses  the  rabbits,  though.  They 
won't  agree  to  sit  down  and  get  fat  in  ten  minutes  for 
him  or  anybody  else.  Not  while  Shep  and  the  coyotes 
are  about,  and  there's  nothing  but  weeds  to  eat  even 
if  they  do  sit." 

George  was  right.     The  rabbits  that  he  and  Terry 


124          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

brought  in  were  pretty  poor  specimens.    At  first  Harry 
was  disgusted ;  then  he  cheered  up. 

"I'll  make  a  gravy  of  flour  and  water  and  bacon- 
drippings.  That'll  give  'em  a  fat  and  greasy  look. 
Why,  with  plenty  of  gravy  a  cook  can  hide  a  multi- 
tude of  sins.  The  biscuits  and  the  pie  will  sure  fetch 
him,  too.  The  driver  and  the  rest  of  us  will  have  to 
get  along  with  bacon  and  some  corn  pone." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   STAGE    KING   COMES   THROUGH 

BEAVER  CREEK  home  station  turned  out  earlier  than 
usual  in  the  morning — "all  samee  like  Fourth  of  July," 
grumbled  George.  But  although  George  did  consider- 
able kicking  and  blustering,  it  was  mostly  pretend. 
His  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite,  and  he  didn't  have 
a  lazy  bone  in  his  body. 

Harry  began  to  hustle  at  once;  when  he  hustled, 
everybody  hustled.  He  swept  the  dirt  floor  and  the 
front  "yard"  with  a  damp  broom,  and  took  time  only 
to  "throw  together"  a  breakfast  for  the  in-stage. 

By  the  time  the  stage  arrived,  things  at  the  house 
were  looking  spick  and  span,  and  a  brand  new  United 
States  flag  that  he  had  in  stock  was  flying  from  the 
pole  over  the  door. 

Jenny,  the  yellow  mule,  and  Duke,  the  half -buffalo, 
had  been  groomed,  after  a  fashion,  and  were  uncom- 
fortable in  their  bright  calico  neckties.  Shep  proudly 
wore  a  large  red  bow  on  his  strap  collar. 

The  second-rate  team  was  to  be  put  to  the  stage. 
The  six  mules  that  had  brought  Terry  through  the 
Indians,  that  time,  were  saved  for  a  final  currying, 
to  go  on  with  Ben  Holladay. 

125 


126          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

It  was  great  luck  that  the  mules  should  be  waiting 
in  the  corral.  They  came  just  right. 

The  dusty  stage  rolled  in,  and  halted.  Terry  and 
George  sprang  to  the  traces.  Six  passengers  stiffly 
emerged,  blinking  and  weary.  Two  were  women. 

"What  a  neat  station,"  Terry  heard  one  say  to  the 
other.  "It  looks  like  new." 

Having  tossed  down  his  lines,  Driver  Tommy  Ryan 
leisurely  followed;  drew  off  his  gloves  and  slapped 
them  dustily.  His  eye  roved  about,  taking  in  the  dec- 
orated Shep  and  Duke  and  Jenny,  and  the  traces  of  the 
broom. 

"Who's  running  this  joint  now?"  he  asked.  "Some- 
body got  married?" 

"Uh  uh,"  grunted  George,  as  he  and  Terry  worked 
fast.  "We're  expecting  company." 

They  hooked  up  the  fresh  team  at  once,  so  as  to  go 
in  to  breakfast  and  have  everything  clear. 

"Is  that  the  best  coffee  you've  got  on  tap?"  was 
inquiring  Driver  Ryan.  "Tastes  as  though  it  was 
some  left  over  from  my  last  trip." 

"Sorry,  Tom,"  answered  Harry.  "But  we're  a 
little  short  on  coffee  and  we  have  to  save  for  Mr. 
Holladay." 

"Well,"  growled  Tom,  "pass  me  another  mule's 
ear  full  of  the  same,  then.  I'm  only  a  driver  and 
these  here  are  only  passengers." 

"Seems  like  I  smell  hot  bread  baking,"  presently 
said  Tom. 

"Guess  you  do,  Tom.  I'm  getting  out  a  batch  of 
biscuits  for  Mr.  Holladay." 


THE  STAGE  KING  COMES  THROUGH     127 

Tom  snorted. 

"See  you're  flying  a  new  flag,"  he  remarked.  "What 
you  doing?  Celebrating  a  big  victory  somewheres?" 

"Nope.  We  thought  we'd  put  it  out  for  Mr.  Holla- 
day." 

Tom  pushed  back  his  stool,  and  strolled  out. 

"Lookee  here,"  he  greeted,  when  Terry  and  George 
joined  him.  "It's  my  turn  for  those  mules,  isn't  it? 
What  do  you  mean  by  hooking  up  those  hosses,  out  of 
schedule  ?" 

"The  mules  go  on  the  Holladay  stage,  Tom,"  ex- 
plained Terry  politely.  "You  know  Mr.  Holladay 's 
coming  through  to-day." 

"Know  it?  O'  course  I  know  it!"  retorted  Tom. 
"If  I  didn't  know  it  I'd  be  blind  and  deaf  both.  He 
was  at  Julesburg  yesterday;  and  all  the  way  from 
Valley  every  coyote  has  a  knot  in  its  tail  so  as  to  re- 
mind it  not  to  take  anything  Ben  Holladay  wants !" 

Tom  drove  on,  in  ill  humor. 

The  two  hostlers  rubbed  down  the  team  that  he  had 
left ;  put  a  final  polish  on  the  six  mules,  cast  a  careful 
eye  around  the  stable  and  corral  to  see  that  nothing 
was  out  of  place,  and  went  in  to  tidy  themselves. 

"When  you  get  through,  climb  up  on  the  roof,  there, 
and  keep  a  lookout  down  the  trail,"  ordered  Harry. 
"Don't  dirty  your  clothes,  either,  and  at  first  sign 
of  dust  yonder,  yell  to  me,  so  I  can  slap  on  the  rabbit 
and  coffee  and  have  the  biscuits  hot.  You  fellows  will 
have  to  eat  corn  pone  and  bacon,  if  you  eat  at  all. 
Don't  you  dare  to  touch  the  Holladay  stuff.  That's 
private  feed." 


128          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Squatting  upon  the  flat,  hot,  sun-baked  sod  roof 
was  no  sport.  All  the  land  lay  shimmering,  while  they 
strained  their  eyes  to  catch  the  token  of  Ben  Holla- 
day's  dust,  in  the  east,  down  the  road. 

"See  anything?"  Harry  called  up  every  few  min- 
utes, while  he  clattered  the  stove  lids  and  the  dishes, 
below. 

However,  at  last 

"I  see  him!"  exclaimed  Terry.  "I  see  fresh  dust, 
anyway." 

"Where?" 

"Over  against  those  hills,  where  the  road  turns.  See 
it?" 

"Maybe  it's  nothing  but  more  freighters." 

"It's  moving  too  fast.  Look  at  it!  It's  traveling 
like  a  prairie-fire." 

"Guess  it's  the  'old  man,'  all  right,"  agreed  George. 
"He's  a-coming,  Harry!  He's  a-coming!" 

"Either  that,  or  a  big  whirlwind,"  Terry  added. 

"Hooray !  Climb  down  before  he  catches  you.  We 
don't  want  him  to  know  we're  expecting  him.  This  is 
every-day  life  at  Beaver  Creek." 

With  another  look,  to  be  sure,  they  scrambled  off 
the  roof.  Harry  made  them  wash  and  shake  again, 
and  wipe  the  dust  from  their  bacon-greased  boots. 
The  kitchen  resounded  with  sizzling  and  sputtering 

"How  am  I,  boys?"  Harry  queried.  "Is  there  any 
flour  on  my  nose?  Does  this  apron  fit?" 

There  was  no  flour  on  his  nose,  and  the  gingham 
apron  that  covered  him  from  flannel  shirt  to  cowhide 
boots  gave  him  a  professional  air.  He  limped 


THE  STAGE  KING  COMES  THROUGH     129 

about  hastily,  from  kitchen  to  dining-room  and  back. 

"Jump  like  sixty  for  that  team — be  Johnny-on-the- 
spot;  show  him  we're  up  to  snuff,  and  the  best  outfit 
on  the  line,  but  don't  gawk." 

"He's  getting  close,"  warned  George,  in  the  door- 
way. 

For  the  great  Ben  Holladay  was  coming  on  jumpety- 
jump.  It  was  he,  all  right  enough — a  coach,  tugged 
by  six  horses  at  a  dead  gallop,  making  naught  of  bounc- 
ing and  pitching,  and,  by  its  headlong  course,  claiming 
the  track. 

Still  at  a  gallop,  the  blowing,  jingling  team  arrived, 
were  pulled  to  their  haunches  by  brake  and  lines,  and, 
like  the  smartest  kind  of  station-hostlers,  Terry  and 
George,  standing  ready  at  the  roadside,  charged  to  un- 
hook before  ever  the  lines  had  touched  the  ground  or 
the  dust  had  ceased  swirling  in. 

The  driver,  an  "extra"  from  down  the  line,  sat  his 
seat  a  moment  while  the  coach  door  opened.  First 
there  stepped  out  a  dignified  darky  servant,  who,  with 
bared  head,  stood  at  the  doorstep  as  if  to  assist  the 
other  passengers.  Then  there  stepped  out  in  brisk 
fashion  a  rather  heavy-set  man  in  a  broad-brimmed 
drab  beaver  hat  of  finest  quality  and  light  drab  doe- 
skin overcoat.  He  had  a  masterful  face,  with  dark, 
sharp  eyes  under  bushy  brows  and  downward  curving 
mustache  and  shoe-brush  whiskers.  He  was  close  fol- 
lowed by  a  slighter  man,  of  short  brown  beard  and 
linen  duster. 

They  stamped  their  feet,  cast  a  quick  glance  around, 
and  bustled  for  the  station  doorway.  The  darky,  car- 


130          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

rying  a  couple  of  traveling  bags,  respectfully  followed. 
Harry,  in  his  apron,  received  them. 

"Know  who  those  are  ?"  queried  the  driver,  descend- 
ing. "That  first  is  Ben  Holladay.  T'other  is  Mister 
George  Otis,  general  superintendent.  Give  these 
hosses  a  good  rub-down.  We  came  through  as  if  the 
Injuns  were  chasing  us.  Better  hook  up  the  other  team 
right  away,  too.  There's  no  knowing  what'll  happen 
next." 

"What's  that?    A  special  coach ?" 

"Yep.  Has  two  seats  and  fitted  up  according.  Hol- 
laday's  the  only  one  who  uses  it." 

By  the  time  Terry  and  George  had  put  the  glossy 
mules  in,  and  entered  the  house,  Mr.  Holladay  and 
Mr.  Otis  had  washed  and  brushed,  and  were  sitting  at 
one  end  of  the  table.  The  driver  sat  in  the  middle, 
and  the  darky  sat  at  the  foot.  So  the  others  sat  oppo- 
site the  driver. 

Mr.  Holladay  had  removed  his  overcoat,  of  course. 
He  wore  a  black  broadcloth  suit,  of  long  coat,  vest  and 
trousers ;  and  across  the  front  of  his  vest  hung  a  massy 
gold  watch-chain.  His  white  shirt  bore  handsome  gold 
studs ;  his  collar  and  cuffs  were  spotless.  Mr.  Otis  was 
dressed  in  ordinary  business  clothes,  of  pepper-and-salt 
Scotch  mixture. 

Harry  hovered  over,  anxious  to  please.  Shep,  the 
bow  on  his  neck,  sat  bolt  upright,  gravely  staring.  The 
table  was  spread  with  a  checkered  oilcloth,  and  with  its 
steaming  dishes  did  itself  proud. 

"Will  you  try  some  of  this  rabbit,  Mr.  Holladay?" 
Harry  was  asking. 


THE  STAGE  KING  COMES  THROUGH     1 3 1 

"No,  thank  you;  not  now.  Not  while  the  bacon 
lasts.  But  if  somebody'll  pass  that  corn  pone  this 
way " 

"Yes,  suh ;  yes,  suh,"  replied  the  darky.  "Heah  it 
is,  suh." 

"Coming  your  way,  sir,"  added  the  driver,  passing 
the  dish  of  corn  pone. 

Mr.  Holladay  kept  it,  and  proceeded  to  make  his 
breakfast  of  bacon,  corn  bread  and  coffee.  Mr.  Otis 
seemed  to  prefer  that,  too.  So  it  fell  to  the  rest  of 
them  to  eat  Harry's  rabbit  and  biscuits. 

This  was  not  according  to  schedule,  and  at  sight  of 
Harry's  long  face  George  nudged  Terry,  to  call  his  at- 
tention. But  Mr.  Holladay  went  right  ahead,  eating 
the  bacon  and  corn  pone,  until  he  had  cleared  the  plat- 
ters. 

Then  he  heaved  a  satisfied  sigh,  wiped  his  mustache 
and  whiskers  with  a  fine  linen  handkerchief,  pulled  a 
gold  ornamented  cigar  case  from  his  pocket,  offered 
a  fat  cigar  to  Mr.  Otis  and  took  one  himself ;  and,  ris- 
ing, they  strolled  out. 

"Say,  got  any  bacon?"  asked  the  driver,  of  Harry. 

"No.    Not  a  sliver." 

"What's  that  I've  been  eating?  Rabbit — and  saler- 
atus  bread?  Pie!  No,  thanks.  Suppose  I'll  last 
through  to  the  next  eating  house,  but  that's  no  fodder 
for  a  hard-working  man." 

He  trudged  out. 

"Mistuh  Holladay,  he's  very  fond  o'  bacon  an*  cohn 
pone,"  complimented  the  darky,  of  Harry.  "Yes,  suh. 
You  done  pleased  him." 


132          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"I'll  be  durned,"  said  Harry. 

Ben  Holladay  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  travel  on.  He 
gave  the  driver  one  of  the  fat  cigars ;  and  he  and  Mr. 
Otis  continued  to  stroll,  inspecting  the  premises  and 
the  corral  and  the  stock. 

"Prime  mules,"  he  commented,  eyeing  the  fresh 
team.  "As  good  as  any  along  the  line,  eh,  George? 
Who  are  the  hostlers — you  two  boys?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Um.  I  guess  you'll  do.  Where's  your  mother? 
I'd  like  to  congratulate  the  lady  of  the  house.  There's 
one  around,  by  the  looks  of  things;  and  that's  the 
best  meal  I've  had  since  we  lefkKearney." 

"I'm  the  lady  of  the  house,  Mr.  Holladay,"  said 
Harry,  with  a  bow. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Harry  Revere." 

"If  you've  had  your  breakfast,  and  you're  the  lady, 
I  suppose  we  should  call  you  'Harry-et,'  eh?"  smiled 
Mr.  Otis. 

"Haw,  haw!"  blared  the  driver.  "That's  another 
good  one." 

"Mistuh  Otis,  he's  a  funny  man,"  informed  the 
darky,  aside,  to  Terry.  "Done  makes  jokes,  wherever 
he  am." 

"Anyway,  you've  got  a  first-class  station  here,"  pro- 
claimed Ben  Holladay.  "Neat  as  a  pin,  and  a  credit 
to  the  Overland ;  yellow  mule,  half-breed  buffalo,  and 
all.  It's  quite  a  change  from  the  last  time  I  went 
through."  He  laughed.  "I  dare  say  you  boys  knew  I 
was  coming.  Do  the  Indians  bother  you?" 


THE  STAGE  KING  COMES  THROUGH     133 

"Not  yet,  Mr.  Holladay." 

"The  trouble  will  be  farther  east,  I  think."  He 
puffed  at  his  cigar.  "But  you'll  have  to  watch  your 
stock.  Are  you  three  prepared  to  handle  the  main 
California  travel,  if  it  comes  this  way?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  asserted  Harry.  "We'll  handle  all  you 
send  us.  When  is  it  due?" 

"This  fall,  like  as  not.  I've  made  arrangements 
with  the  post-office  department  to  change  the  route  of 
the  mails."  He  looked  at  his  thick  watch.  "All 
'board,"  he  snapped.  "Pile  in,  George.  Where's  my 
coat,  Eph?" 

The  driver,  his  cigar  slanted  rakishly  in  his  mouth, 
pulled  on  his  gloves,  and  climbed  to  the  box.  George 
stood  at  the  lead  mules'  bits,  and  Terry  passed  up  the 
lines.  The  two  officials  entered  the  coach,  the  darky 
had  stowed  the  bags,  and  followed.  The  coach  door 
slammed. 

"Stand  clear,"  instantly  ordered  the  driver,  and 
kicked  the  brake  free.  The  mules  sprang,  he  cracked 
his  whip  above  them,  and  away  they  tore,  at  a  run, 
whirling  the  great  Ben  Holladay  on  for  the  next 
stop. 

"He's  a  corker,  isn't  he !"  gasped  George  admiringly. 
"He's  not  old,  either.  Bet  you  he  isn't  more'n  forty." 

"Thirty-nine,"  said  Harry.  "Likes  bacon  and  corn 
bread.  Worth  about  a  million.  Divides  his  time  be- 
tween Washington,  New  York  and  out  West.  He's 
not  a  corker;  he's  a  humdinger." 

"I  guess  we  pleased  him,  didn't  we?"  ventured 
Terry. 


134          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Reckon  we  did,"  Harry  chirped.  "He  left  a 
twenty-dollar  gold-piece  under  his  plate.  Maybe  he 
forgot  it,  but  maybe  he  won't  miss  it." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Bury  it  until  we  want  it  to  celebrate  with.  It'll 
buy  a  heap  of  peanuts,  boys.  I  haven't  had  a  goober 
for  three  years." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CANNONEERS    TO    THE    RESCUE! 

STAGE  King  Ben  Holladay  returned  through  by 
night,  so  they  did  not  see  him  again  soon.  But  this 
fall  the  Salt  Lake  and  California  stages  began  their 
runs  right  up  the  south  side  of  the  South  Platte,  from 
Julesburg  on  past  Bijou  beyond  Beaver  Creek,  to  the 
base  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  northern  Colorado. 

The  Denver  line  was  changed  from  the  cut-off  at 
Bijou.  The  new  main  line  lay  only  sixty  miles  north 
of  Denver,  and  the  Denver  stages  plied  back  and  forth 
between  Denver  and  Latham  Junction  of  the  main 
line. 

The  main  line  itself  turned  north  at  the  Colorado 
foothills,  for  two  hundred  miles  along  the  foothills, 
into  present  Wyoming,  and  struck  the  old  road  after 
crossing  the  mountains  there.  This  did  not  shorten 
the  distance  any  to  California,  but  it  took  the  stages 
out  of  the  plains  Indian  country  north  of  Julesburg. 

The  Overland  gave  up  twenty-six  stations,  and  a 
great  amount  of  hay  and  grain  and  other  stuff.  That 
meant  $25,000  loss,  Ben  Holladay  claimed — but  he 
could  not  stand  the  Indians. 

The  scar-face  Indian  had  not  come  back  to  Beaver 
135 


136          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Creek  station  for  more  Pain  Killer — or  for  anything 
else;  but  Beaver  Creek  did  not  miss  him.  Although 
the  majority  of  the  Utah  and  Oregon  and  California 
emigrants  still  used  the  old  stage  trail,  in  spite  of  the 
Indians,  so  as  to  stop  at  Fort  Laramie  trading  post, 
the  switching  of  the  main  line  to  the  South  Platte  and 
"Bitter  Creek"  route  brought  a  marked  increase  of 
business  to  Beaver  Creek. 

Freight  for  a  dozen  of  the  new  stations  rolled 
through,  accompanied  by  the  wagon-masters  and  bull- 
whackers;  and  these  men  now  and  then  bought  from 
Harry's  "grocery"  stock.  He  was  forced  to  lay  in  a 
supply  of  the  lately  invented  "Bitters,"  which  was  a 
favorite  tonic. 

All  the  Overland  passengers,  both  ways  (except 
those  who  traveled  cheaply  with  bread  and  cheese  and 
bologna  sausage  in  their  pockets),  stopped  off  for 
breakfast  or  dinner. 

The  general  officers  now  made  Beaver  Creek,  on 
their  trips  through.  There  was  Mr.  Henry  Carlyle, 
who  was  manager  of  the  supply  trains  that  hauled  the 
freight  for  all  the  stations — lumber,  hay,  grain,  pro- 
visions, and  so  forth. 

There  was  Mr.  David  Street,  the  pay-master  for  the 
whole  line.  There  was  Mr.  Bela  M.  Hughes,  the 
Overland  attorney  or  general  counsel,  with  headquar- 
ters at  the  east  end.  There  was  the  stock  buyer,  who 
purchased  the  horses;  and  the  agent  who  took  orders 
for  clothing  at  only  a  little  advance  over  New  York 
prices — for  the  Overland  attended  to  this,  also;  and 
the  head  carpenter ;  and  the  auditor ;  and  others.  The 


CANNONEERS  TO  THE  RESCUE!       137 

Overland  Stage  Line  was  a  great  system,  like  a  mod- 
ern railroad. 

The  wild  ducks  visited  the  slough  again,  and  fat- 
tened there.  Along  in  October  the  freight  wagons 
commenced  to  deliver  the  winter's  supply  of  wood. 
Contractors  had  been  cutting  it  all  summer,  in  the 
Platte  bottoms  and  in  the  mountains ;  and  here  it  came, 
to  be  thrown  down,  cord  upon  cord,  at  the  stations  of 
the  division,  and  stacked  up  by  the  station  hands. 
Beaver  Creek  had  a  wood-pile  as  large  as  the  house, 
and  more  would  be  needed  before  spring. 

With  the  exception  of  a  driving  rain,  which  left  the 
far  distant  Rocky  Mountain  range  white  against  the 
horizon,  the  fall  weather  stayed  fine  and  clear  to 
Christmas.  It  keened  gradually  to  frosty  nights,  but 
the  days  hung  warm  and  sunny.  Thanksgiving  was 
celebrated  with  a  whopping  "private"  dinner  of  buf- 
falo roast,  for  which  Harry  sent  to  Denver,  and  mince 
pie  and  other  odds  and  ends,  which  George's  mother 
expressed  up. 

Christmas  dawned  bright.  From  American  Ranch, 
the  next  station,  twelve  miles  east,  there  arrived  an 
antelope's  fore-quarters,  with  the  compliments  of  Mr. 
Kelly,  the  station-keeper.  Terry  and  George  had  rid- 
den down  there  several  times,  to  swap  news.  No  bet- 
ter meat  than  antelope  roamed  the  plains.  It  beat  the 
best  mutton.  And  this,  with  another  box  from 
Denver,  and  a  package  from  Terry's  mother  and 
father,  out  East,  made  a  Merry  Christmas  at  Beaver 
Creek. 

Father  Richards  had  recovered  from  his  wound,  but 


138          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

he  was  not  fit  for  active  service  yet,  and  rather  ex- 
pected to  be  invalided  "home,"  which,  said  Terry's 
mother,  meant  Colorado.  They  would  probably  start 
in  the  spring.  That  was,  indeed,  good  Christmas 
news. 

"Weather  breeder,"  had  remarked  Harry  this  morn- 
ing, as  he  cocked  his  eye  at  the  sky  and  the  horizon. 

After  the  late  dinner  they  all  stepped  out,  and  could 
feel  the  change  at  once.  The  breeze  had  risen,  and 
puffed  chill  and  gusty  from  the  northwest.  The  hori- 
zon all  around  had  closed  in — a  grayness  was  creeping 
up  into  the  sky,  and  the  plains  were  moaning. 

Harry  shivered,  half  in  earnest  and  half  in  pre- 
tense. 

"She's  a-coming,  fellows.  No  more  shirt-sleeves 
for  a  while.  Look  at  those  ducks  making  south! 
Geese,  too!  They're  in  a  hurry.  You'd  better  saw 
some  more  wood." 

Evening  closed  in  early;  the  air  nipped.  To-night 
while  they  sat  close  in  front  of  the  blazing  fire-place, 
the  wind  whistled  viciously  past  the  eaves,  the  dried 
weeds  on  the  sod  roof  rattled,  and  the  kitchen  chimney 
creaked. 

Harry  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  door.  He  drew  back 
with  his  hair  whitened. 

"Snowing  like  sixty,"  he  reported.  "Br-r-r-r !  Not 
extra  cold,  though.  But  as  long  as  the  wood  holds  out, 
I'd  rather  be  a  station-keeper  than  a  stage  driver  for 
the  next  few  months." 

They  needed  a  lot  of  blankets  to-night.    When  they 


CANNONEERS  TO  THE  RESCUE!      139 

turned  out,  before  daylight,  in  the  early  morning,  they 
could  scarcely  open  the  door,  and  the  storm  was  raging 
in  full  fury. 

The  stage,  with  Bill  Trotter  on  the  box,  arrived  half 
an  hour  late.  Driver  and  horses  and  coach  were  plas- 
tered white,  but  Harry  had  a  hot  breakfast  of  coffee 
and  slapjacks,  and,  with  stove  and  fire-place  together, 
the  station  was  warm. 

The  full  onset  of  winter  interfered  with  the  freight- 
ing and  the  emigrant  travel,  but  the  stages  never  quit 
for  weather.  The  drivers  attached  beaver-fur  collars 
to  their  overcoats.  The  collars  reached  well  above 
their  ears.  They  donned  buffalo-hide  overshoes,  worn 
fur  side  in,  and  shaggy  fur  caps,  worn  fur  side  out,  ex- 
cept the  ear  tabs.  Around  their  necks  they  wrapped 
shawls  and  scarfs,  covering  their  faces  to  the  eyes. 
Their  hands  were  the  only  parts  that  suffered ;  for 
when  the  thermometer  sank  to  thirty  and  forty  below 
they  usually  arrived  at  the  station  with  a  finger  or  two 
frozen. 

Even  at  that  they  got  off  the  box  only  long  enough 
to  restore  the  circulation  with  snow  and  vigorous 
threshing,  and  drank  a  hasty  cup  of  steaming  coffee 
at  the  threshold. 

"No  fire  for  me,  thank  you,"  was  the  plea.  "Once 
a  fellow's  used  to  the  cold,  he'll  do  better  to  stay  in  it 
until  the  end  of  his  run." 

Altogether,  the  drivers,  bundled  like  mummies,  were 
an  odd  sight.  And  so  were  the  passengers,  who  stum- 
bled stiffly  out,  so  wadded  with  woollen  underclothing, 


140          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

blanket  overcoats,  buffalo  robes,  and  buffalo  overshoes 
wrapped  in  gunny-sacking,  that  they  could  scarcely 
move. 

Terry  and  George  did  their  outdoor  work  in  buck- 
skin vests  worn  over  woollen  underclothes,  and  blanket 
coats  outside ;  three  pairs  of  socks  to  the  feet,  and  buf- 
falo moccasins  on  the  boots;  buffalo-hide  caps,  with 
ear  tabs;  and  silk  gloves  worn  under  heavy  buckskin. 

The  buckskin  was  wind-proof,  the  silk  was  warm; 
but  when  hitching  up  the  teams  a  fellow's  fingers  soon 
tingled  and  numbed,  and  were  all  thumbs.  That  was 
the  coldest  job — changing  the  teams. 

The  station  duties  increased.  There  were  paths  to 
the  corral,  and  to  the  stable,  and  the  well,  and  the 
wood-pile  to  be  kept  clean;  wood  to  saw  and  split; 
stock  to  be  well  bedded  and  watered  by  pails.  All  the 
plains  stretched  white  and  cold.  The  slough  froze 
solid;  so  did  other  water,  even  in  the  station  house. 
Luckily  the  well  was  deep,  and  they  managed  to  break 
the  film  which  formed  constantly. 

They  were  pretty  comfortable  in  the  station.  To  be 
sure,  water  there  froze  while  the  hot  fire  raged  in  the 
fire-place ;  and  a  fellow's  shins  scorched  while  his  back 
drew  taut.  The  thick  sod  walls  easily  resisted  the  wind 
and  frost ;  but  the  cold  air  sucked  in  around  the  wooden 
shutters  and  all  the  other  little  cracks,  and  swept 
across,  up  the  flue. 

The  warmest  spot  was  the  bunks,  under  blankets 
and  buffalo  robes.  And  whew,  but  to  roll  out  before 
daylight  was  tough! 

However,  that  was  an  angle  of  the  day's  routine; 


CANNONEERS  TO  THE  RESCUE!      141 

and,  as  Harry  had  said,  the  station  job  was  better  than 
the  driving  job. 

In  between  the  spells  of  storm  and  below  zero,  there 
were  spells  of  sunshine  and  sparkling  warmth,  when 
the  snow  melted  from  the  stage  tracks  and  the  rabbits 
came  out  to  squat  in  the  mouths  of  their  burrows — 
ripe  for  rabbit  pie. 

Spring  semed  to  settle  down  early  this  new  year  of 
1863.  And  it  certainly  was  welcome,  although,  after 
all,  Beaver  Creek  station  had  weathered  the  winter 
without  much  trouble. 

In  March  the  willow  buds  had  swelled,  the  slough 
was  mushy,  a  few  geese  had  flown  over,  and  George 
was  keeping  a  close  watch  on  the  buds  of  a  big  cotton- 
wood  tree. 

As  old  plainsmen  know,  veteran  cottonwood  trees 
are  not  to  be  fooled.  They  wait,  and  make  their  buds 
wear  their  winter  flannels  until  there  is  no  danger  of 
taking  cold. 

Indians  know  this,  too.  Driver  Tommy  Ryan 
^dropped  a  word  of  caution. 

"It's  getting  near  time  for  the  plains  Injuns  to  be 
raiding  into  the  Ute  country,  I  s'pose  you  understand. 
The  south  slopes  of  the  hills  are  greenish,  I  hear  tell ; 
mountains  are  warmer  than  the  plains.  The  young 
bucks  will  be  getting  restless.  And  when  they  don't 
find  plunder  in  one  place  they're  apt  to  swing  'round 
on  their  way  home  and  pick  it  up  in  another." 

"Anyhow,  we  can  let  Duke  and  Jenny  graze  out, 
can't  we?"  proposed  Terry  that  night,  in  the  station. 


142          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"The  grass  is  showing  green  at  the  edge  of  the 
slough.'5 

George  returned  from  a  trip  down  to  the  American 
Ranch,  and  brought  some  bits  of  news. 

"They  say  the  folks  at  that  new  Washington  Ranch 
where  the  Moores  are  living  have  a  great  scheme. 
They've  mounted  a  fake  cannon  in  their  yard.  Just 
an  old  butter-churn  on  wheels,  but  it'll  sure  scare  off 
the  Injuns." 

"Oh!  Is  that  so?"  mused  Harry,  and  he  fell  to 
thinking. 

In  the  morning  he  busied  himself,  tinkering  myste- 
riously. It  took  two  days  to  wind  a  length  of  stove 
pipe  with  rope,  tar  it  over,  plug  one  end,  mount  it  on 
a  carriage  sawed  from  planks,  and  station  the  whole 
thing  on  the  flat  roof,  with  a  pyramid  of  tarred  clay 
cannon-balls  beside  it. 

From  below  it  did  look  like  a  real  cannon.  The 
layer  of  rope  gave  it  the  thickness  of  iron,  and  the  tar 
covered  the  strands.  The  flag  and  the  cannon  made 
the  station  into  a  fort ! 

"Duke  and  Jenny  will  have  the  honor  of  grazing 
under  protection  of  artillery,"  Harry  chuckled.  "No- 
body's going  to  get  ahead  of  Beaver  Creek  station. 
That  beats  a  butter-churn." 

So  it  would  appear,  to  any  reasonable  person.  Duke 
and  Jenny  were  turned  out  the  next  day,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  change  very  much.  Before  daylight  of 
the  following  morning,  Terry  was  awakened  by  Shep 
scratching  and  whining  at  the  door,  evidently  want- 
ing to  make  a  tour  abroad.  He  had  been  sleeping  in- 


CANNONEERS  TO  THE  RESCUE!      143 

side  all  winter,  and  the  nights  were  yet  sharp  and 
uncertain. 

"Get  down,  Shep !"  Terry  hissed.  He  was  so  heavy 
with  sleep  that  it  was  torture  to  stir. 

"What's  the  matter?"  drooned  George,  sleepy  also. 

"Shep's  scratching  to  go  out." 

"Get  down,  Shep!" 

But  Shep  was  not  that  kind.  He  growled  in  his 
throat,  and  scratched  more  persistent. 

"Aw,"  drawled  George,  "he  smells  a  coyote."  And 
George  began  to  snore. 

Drat  such  a  dog!  Harry  likewise  was  gurgling, 
dead  to  the  world.  Terry  found  the  floor,  and  stag- 
gered across. 

"You  stay  out,  now,"  he  scolded,  as  he  opened  the 
door  and  Shep  slipped  by  into  the  darkness. 

Shep  began  to  bark,  in  the  distance.  The  first  tinge 
of  gray  was  paling  the  chill  dusk,  and  Terry  left  Shep 
to  his  barking  while  he  himself  pattered  back  to  the 
warm  bunk.  It  didn't  take  him  long  to  join  the  com- 
pany of  George  and  Harry,  and  make  similar  happy 
sounds. 

Suddenly  he  wakened  again,  this  time  with  a  start. 
Harry  was  speaking  quickly — half  sitting  up  in  his 
bunk  amidst  the  gray,  his  blankets  thrown  partly  off. 

"Boys!     Something's  wrong!" 

Shep's  barking  was  furious — and  instantly  broke  to 
a  shrill  yell  of  pain ;  there  seemed  to  be  hushed,  rapid 
movement  outside ;  not  exactly  heard,  but  felt. 

"Wha'  smatter?"  stammered  George,  struggling  to 
separate  from  his  pillow. 


144          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Terry  strained  his  ears;  his  heart  thumped  so  that 
it  deafened  him.  Harry  sat  poised,  intent,  listening, 
too.  Then  Shep  bolted  against  the  door,  scratched 
blunderingly  and  whined  in  piteous  fashion.  Harry 
sprang  to  the  floor. 

"Indians!  Somebody's  after  Jenny  and  Duke! 
Cannoneers  to  the  rescue!" 

He  did  not  wait  to  dress — not  even  to  put  on  his 
boots.  He  grabbed  the  shotgun  from  the  wall,  as  he 
passed  it.  Terry,  following,  grabbed  the  musket. 
George,  thoroughly  awake  to  the  word  "Indians," 
charged  after. 

Harry  flung  back  the  door,  and  almost  fell  over 
Shep,  lying  at  the  threshold. 

"Look  out!     Shep's  hurt!"  he  called. 

A  wet  snow  was  falling  thickly.  Shep  was  stretched 
weak  and  bloody,  an  arrow  through  his  flank.  Harry 
disappeared  in  the  storm,  around  the  corner  of  the 
house ;  and  Terry  and  George  boiled  in  pursuit,  to  back 
him  up. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    CHAPTER   OF    SURPRISES 

IN  the  mist  along  the  slough  not  a  sign  of  Duke  and 
Jenny  could  be  seen,  through  the  snowflakes. 

"Lost,  strayed  or  stolen,"  pronounced  Harry,  who 
had  arrived  first.  "Not  even  a  track  left.  Great  Scott ! 
If  that  scar-face  Pain  Killer  did  this  we'll  hoist  his 
scalp  on  the  flag-pole." 

"Terry  and  I'll  chase  'em,"  panted  George.  "Come 
on,  Terry !  Get  a  hoss.  We're  not  afraid  of  Injuns." 

He  ran  for  the  stable. 

"You  take  care  of  Shep — tell  the  stage  driver  where 
we  are,"  called  back  Terry  to  Harry,  and  running 
after. 

"Hi !  Hold  on  a  minute !"  shouted  Harry ;  but  why 
"hold  on,"  when,  as  George  urged,  over  his  shoulder : 

"If  we  don't  hurry,  Duke'll  be  Injun  meat.  They'll 
kill  him  and  eat  him." 

"They  shore  will,"  agreed  Terry  excitedly. 

Harry's  voice  trailed  them,  but  was  a  poor  third  in 
the  race.  George  beat  to  the  corral  and  stable.  He 
peered  along  the  rails,  and  wrenched  open  the  stable 
door.  His  voice  drowned  Harry's. 

"Gee  whizz !    Not  a  hoss  or  mule  here !" 
145 


146          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Terry  arrived.  Corral  and  stable  were  silent  and 
empty;  the  corral  rails  on  one  side  had  been  torn 
down ;  there  was  not  a  hoof — every  animal  had  leaked 
out,  no,  had  been  driven  out 

Harry  arrived. 

"Just  as  I  thought,"  he  wheezed.    "Blame  the  luck." 

"Didn't  they  see  the  cannon?"  complained  George. 

"Yes,  but  the  cannon  couldn't  see  them.  Shep  did 
his  best,  though." 

"What'll  we  do?"  demanded  Terry. 

"Br-r-r-r!  Put  some  clothes  on,"  Harry  retorted. 
"I've  been  yelling  at  you  every  step.  Do  you  reckon 
you  can  chase  Indians  through  a  snowstorm,  riding  in 
your  bare  feet  and  underclothes?" 

"Jiminy!  I  plumb  forgot,"  confessed  George,  with 
a  giggle.  "You  fellows  sure  look  funny." 

"No  funnier  than  you." 

And,  indeed,  they  three  did  look  queer — out  here, 
bare-foot,  in  undress  of  faded  red  flannels,  George  with 
his  revolver  strapped  around  his  waist,  Harry  and 
Terry  lugging  long-barreled  guns. 

"Guess  it's  not  funny  to  Shep,  though,"  blurted 
Terry,  reminded.  "Poor  Shep !  Hope  he  crawled  in- 
side. I'm  going  back." 

"I  should  say!"  George  added.  "And  suppose  the 
stage  came  in!" 

They  scampered  for  shelter  and  Shep,  Harry  in  the 
lead.  Shep  had  crawled  inside,  and  was  licking  at  his 
wounds  and  biting  at  the  feathered  end  of  the  arrow. 

Before  they  did  another  thing  they  attended  to  him. 
Harry  cut  the  arrow  shaft  in  two,  drew  it  out,  and 


A  CHAPTER  OF  SURPRISES  147 

washed  off  the  blood  while  the  boys  petted  the  patient. 
They  moved  him  to  a  piece  of  blanket  in  a  corner  near 
the  stove,  and  Shep  proceeded  to  nurse  himself  with 
his  tongue  again. 

"No  bones  broken.  It'll  heal  up  quick,"  declared 
Harry.  "Suppose  he  smelled  Injun  before  Terry  let 
him  out.  He  knows  a  heap." 

"Yes,  siree !  Shep  knows  a  heap.  Good  old  Shep ! 
Started  out  to  fight  the  Injuns  all  alone,  didn't  you, 
Shep?" 

Shep  threshed  his  shaggy  tail,  and  whined. 

"You  fellows  dress  while  I  make  a  fire,"  Harry 
ordered,  draped  in  a  blanket,  and  hustling  about 
the  stove.  "Better  let  your  clothes  dry  on  you. 
Br-r-r-r!" 

"No  stock  to  chore  with  this  morning,"  uttered 
George.  "Huh !  That's  a  joke  on  the  stage." 

"Yes,  a  regulation  spring  joke,"  jerked  Harry. 
"The  company  was  used  to  that,  on  the  other  line.  It 
was  a  fall  and  summer  joke,  too.  Glad  our  top  six 
mules  were  out,  though." 

"Duke's  a  goner,  isn't  he?"  sighed  Terry. 

"He's  meat.  But  I'll  not  give  up  my  Jenny.  They 
won't  eat  her — even  an  Indian  couldn't  do  that  unless 
he  had  a  spare  set  of  teeth  to  use  while  the  other  set 
was  being  sharpened." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?"  queried  George. 

"After  you  get  a  cup  of  coffee  down  you,  you  two'll 
have  to  walk  to  American  Ranch  and  borrow  a  team, 
until  we're  re-stocked.  I'll  send  word  by  the  stages  to 
Denver  and  Julesburg.  But  it  will  take  a  couple  of 


148          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

days  before  we're  fixed  out  again.  There'll  have  to  be 
one  change  of  team  at  least,  here." 

"Why  can't  we  wait  and  ride  on  the  stage  to  Bijou?" 

"Because  you  can  be  carrying  the  word  in  one  direc- 
tion while  the  stage  is  carrying  it  in  the  other." 

"All  right.     We're  game,"  said  Terry. 

The  kitchen  stove  was  booming.  They  two  watched 
the  coffee  while  Harry  washed  and  dressed. 

"The  stage  may  be  late,  anyway,"  observed  George. 

"Not  for  a  little  storm  like  this.  Bill  will  bring  her 
through  on  the  dot." 

The  weather  was  not  especially  cold,  but  was  raw 
and  nasty,  with  the  myriad  large  flakes  swooping  madly 
before  a  strong  north  wind.  Wearing  their  winter  cos- 
tume of  buffalo  overshoes,  fur  coats  belted  with  a  strap, 
and  fur  caps,  they  set  out  for  Kelly's  or  American 
Ranch,  twelve  miles  down  the  Platte.  George 
"packed"  his  precious  pistol  along. 

"We  ought  to  get  there  before  noon,"  remarked 
George. 

"Four  hours,  boy,"  corrected  Terry.  "We  can  make 
three  miles  an  hour  if  we're  any  good.  Then  we'll 
ride  back  on  the  hosses." 

Clump,  clump;  trudge,  trudge,  with  the  wet  flakes 
pelting  their  cheeks  and  half  blinding  them.  They 
puffed  and  sweat,  and  ploughed  and  slipped.  There 
was  not  another  sign  of  life  within  sight.  They  had 
the  country  all  to  themselves. 

"We  ought  to  be  meeting  the  stage  pretty  soon, 
seems  to  me,"  George  wheezed.  "Wonder  if  we're 
on  the  trail." 


A  CHAPTER  OF  SURPRISES  149 

"Dunno,"  wheezed  Terry.  "Can't  see  anything.  Do 
you  feel  the  ruts  ?" 

"I  did  a  while  back.  Thought  I  did,  anyway. 
Funny  if  we  got  lost." 

"Can't  get  lost.  Keep  a-going,  and  when  we  edge 
to  the  left  we'll  hit  the  river.  Can't  miss  that,  and 
when  we  hit  the  river  we  can't  miss  Kelly's.  I  know 
every  bend  of  the  river." 

"There's  no  sense  in  following  close  to  the  river, 
though,"  puffed  George.  "It's  too  crooked.  We'll 
head  straight  and  make  short-cuts.  I  don't  want  to 
walk  this  way  all  day.  Wish  I'd  left  my  old  scalp- 
getter  at  home." 

Clump,  clump ;  trudge,  trudge ;  puff,  puff ;  wet  inside 
and  outside,  but,  thanks  to  their  hide  clothes,  not  wet 
through.  However 

"This  stuff  I've  got  on  weighs  a  ton,"  panted 
George.  "I'd  hate  to  be  a  buffalo  the  year  'round. 
Where  are  we,  do  you  suppose  ?  I  don't  believe  we're 
on  the  trail." 

"Neither  do  I.  Doesn't  matter,  though.  When  we 
think  we're  far  enough  we  can  swing  over.  We  ought 
to  be  almost  to  those;  bluffs  where  the  Injuns  tried  to 
corral  Bill  Trotter  and  me." 

Clump,  clump ;  trudge,  trudge ;  and  puff,  puff. 

"Say!  What's  that?  The  stage ?"  suddenly  uttered 
George. 

"Where?  Over  there?"  They  halted  to  peer. 
"Looks  like  it.  Yes,  sure!  Strike  over.  We  aren't 
so  very  far  off  the  track." 

They  struck  over.     The  stage  was  moving  slowly; 


ISO          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

but  stage  it  was,  snow-plastered  and  huge.  It  grad- 
ually sharpened.  George  exclaimed : 

"It's  going  the  wrong  way.     That's  the  hind  end." 

"Come  on !"  bade  Terry.  "What's  the  matter  with 
it  ?"  And  they  broke  into  a  clumsy  trot. 

The  stage  had  shifted  course  again.  It  seemed  to 
be  wandering,  like  a  ship  without  a  rudder.  They 
yelled  vainly,  to  attract  its  attention;  but  thanks  to 
its  erratic  movements  they  caught  it,  and  again  hailed 
breathlessly. 

"Whoopee!    Hey!" 

The  stage  was  enclosed  tightly  against  the  storm. 
The  driver,  a  snow-covered  heap,  was  on  the  box;  his 
whip  drooped  and  his  snowy  lines  extended  loosely  to 
the  snowy  six  horses. 

The  team  stopped  willingly,  and  stood  hunched  and 
steaming.  There  was  only  a  muffled  groan  from  the 
driver. 

"Is  that  you,  Bill  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  Where  you 
going?" 

Bill  Trotter — if  it  was  he — mumbled  weakly.  The 
teatn  started,  but  Terry  ran  to  the  bits. 

"Is  that  you,  Bill  ?    Are  you  sick  ?    Want  help  ?" 

"Where  am  I?  Can't  see."  And  Bill  lunged  side- 
ways, helpless. 

"What  had  we  better  do?"  stammered  George. 

"Drive  it  in,  of  course.  Get  him  inside  first,  I 
reckon.  Wait  till  I  set  that  brake."  And  Terry 
nimbly  climbed  part  way  up  and  kicked  the  brake  tight. 
"Now  lend  a  hand.  Hello,  Bill.  We'll  put  you  inside. 
Know  us  ?  We're  the  boys  from  Beaver  Creek." 


A  CHAPTER  OF  SURPRISES  151 

The  snow  and  wind  flattened  the  voices  issuing  on 
short  breath.  Bill  may  have  understood.  He  was 
limp — evidently  sick.  The  team  shook  themselves  and 
were  impatient. 

"Lend  a  hand,"  ordered  Terry.  "I'll  shove  his  feet 
over  and  you  steady  him.  Easy,  now." 

Driver  Trotter  managed  to  help  himself  a  little. 
'They  got  him  down,  in  a  he<.p.  George  beat  on  the 
stage  door. 

"Open  up.    How  many  in  there?" 

"Six,"  answered  a  voice,  muffled  and  thick.  "Where 
are  we  ?  At  the  station  ?" 

"Not  yet.  Be  there  in  a  few  minutes.  Here's  an- 
other passenger." 

The  stage  door  opened.  They  directed  Bill's  feet, 
and  from  behind  hoisted  him  inside,  where  all  was 
dark  amidst  the  hurtling  flakes. 

"Sick  man.  He's  the  driver,"  explained  George. 
"But  we'll  take  you  on.  Look  after  him,  will  you?" 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Just  some  station  hands.  Station's  only  a  little 
way.  It's  all  right." 

There  were  muffled  exclamations;  but  Terry 
slammed  the  door  shut  on  Bill's  heels.  He  swung 
aboard  and  grasped  the  lines  and  whip.  George  darted 
around  and  plumped  into  the  other  half  of  the  seat. 

"She's  one  of  the  new  coaches,  isn't  she?  Can  you 
navigate  her?" 

"Sure  thing.  Why  not?"  Terry  confidently  re- 
leased the  brake,  tautened  the  lines  and  tried  to  crack 
the  whip.  "Yip !  Gwan  with  you !" 


152          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

The  horses  obediently  started;  the  coach  rolled  si- 
lently. It  was  one  of  the  new  big  fellows  recently 
put  on  by  Ben  Holladay :  three  seats  inside,  and  a  seat 
on  top,  back  of  the  box,  and  knee-higher  than  the  box. 
Held  nine  passengers,  three  on  the  top  seat,  and  by 
stowing  two  more  on  the  box,  with  the  driver,  would 
carry  fourteen. 

Terry  felt  rather  grand  to  be  driving  such  a  coach. 
Lucky  that  he  and  George  were  on  hand,  too ;  for  the 
air  had  stiffened,  the  flakes  were  hard  and  stinging, 
and  the  wind  blew  much  colder.  By  the  tracks  that 
had  been  made,  the  horses  were  beginning  to  wander, 
without  a  driver  to  hold  them  to  the  storm — and  the 
whole  load  might  have  been  adrift. 

He  himself  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  the  team 
headed  right.  The  snow  pellets  stung,  the  wind 
nipped,  and  the  horses  wanted  to  turn  aside. 

"Hep  with  you!    Hi!" 

The  coach  now  and  then  rocked  and  pitched.  The 
landscape,  such  as  might  be  seen,  looked  all  alike — 
just  a  snowy  expanse,  broken  by  high,  hummocky 
shrubs. 

"I  don't  believe  we're  on  the  road  at  all,  yet,"  spoke 
George. 

"Can't  tell  the  road  from  anything  else;  but  if  we 
keep  heading  into  the  wind  we'll  get  somewhere. 
Gwan!" 

"The  horses  ought  to  know  their  way." 

"The  trouble  is,  they  want  to  turn  all  the  time." 

"Maybe  the  wind  has  changed  and  we're  going 
crooked,"  proffered  George,  after  a  time.  He  was 


A  CHAPTER  OF  SURPRISES  153 

growing  anxious — and  so  was  Terry.  "Where's  that 
station?  We've  come  far  enough,  haven't  we?" 

"I  don't  know.    I've  been  expecting  to  strike  it." 

"Better  let  me  drive  for  a  spell." 

"All  right.  My  hands  are  about  numb.  Whew! 
Watch  out  they  don't  sneak  to  one  side  on  you." 

George  finally  got  the  hang  of  the  six  lines.  The 
horses  took  their  own  plodding  gait,  and  all  that  he 
needed  to  do  was  to  hold  them  up  and  hold  them 
straight.  They  were  tired  horses,  and  would  gladly 
have  turned  tail. 

George  drove.  Terry  threshed  his  arms  till  his 
fingers  were  limbered;  then  he  drove. 

He  was  getting  more  anxious.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  end — nothing  ahead.  They  certainly  were  not  on 
the  road,  and  they  certainly  had  missed  Beaver  Creek. 
Or  else  Beaver  Creek  lay  farther  than  they  had  fig- 
ured. Of  course,  the  horses  walked  most  of  the  time, 
and  progress  was  slower  than  might  be  reckoned  from 
the  box. 

The  horses  plodded,  the  heavy  coach  creaked  and 
lumbered,  Terry  urged  the  snow-plastered  team,  and 
he  and  George  peered  before  and  right  and  left. 

"We're  sure  lost,"  asserted  George.  "We're  coming 
from  nowhere  and  going  nowhere.  We  ought  to  have 
been  smack  into  the  river  before  this.  It's  north  and 
that's  where  we've  been  heading.  Blame  those  hosses ! 
Don't  they  know  when  they're  on  the  road  ?" 

"How  do  we  know  they  don't  know,  when  we  don't 
know  ourselves  ?" 

"All  we  can  do  is  to  keep  a-going.    If  we  stop  we're 


154          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

liable  not  to  get  started  again.  Wonder  what  the 
passengers  are  thinking." 

"If  they'll  sit  long  enough,  we'll  take  'em  through," 
said  Terry  doggedly. 

But  he  was  waxing  more  and  more  anxious.  He 
and  George  had  been  driving  hours,  as  seemed  to 
him.  If  they  were  driving  in  a  circle — wow!  The 
horses  could  not  hold  out  forever.  The  snow  covered 
all  tracks;  changed  the  landscape  completely. 

"Either  the  wind's  switched  or  we've  switched. 
That's  what  I  think,"  George  uttered  presently.  And 
he  added,  on  a  sudden :  "It's  quitting.  It's  going  to 
clear.  If  we  can  only  see  the  sun !" 

The  flakes  were  drifting  larger,  in  a  final  flurry. 
The  wind  had  dropped  considerably,  and  the  leaden 
sky  was  brightening.  Objects  began  to  stand  out. 
Terry  pointed  with  his  whip. 

"There  are  some  hills,  all  right  enough.  I  don't  be- 
lieve we've  passed  Beaver,  after  all!  That  looks  like 
the  Platte,  too.  If  we  aren't  on  the  road  we're  mighty 
near  it." 

The  horses  had  pricked  their  drooping  ears,  raised 
their  heavy  heads,  and  tugged  stronger  to  a  laboring 
trot. 

"That  wind  is  more  south  than  north,  boy!"  ex- 
claimed George.  "Look  at  the  bright  spot,  where  the 
sun  is !"  He  cried  out  wildly.  "Beaver  ?  Gwan !  Do 
you  know  where  we  are?  That's  Bijou!  That's  what 
it  is!  Bijou!  We're  twenty  miles  beyond  Beaver. 
Now  I  see  the  station." 

"But  how  did  we  pass  Beaver?" 


A  CHAPTER  OF  SURPRISES  155 

"Must  have  made  a  thundering  big  circuit.  How'd 
we  cross  Beaver  Creek?" 

"I  dunno,"  confessed  Terry.  "We  went  down  into 
something  and  out  again,  I  remember,  away  back. 
Huh!  I  tell  you:  we've  been  forcing  the  hosses  into 
the  wind,  and  edging  southward,  right  along,  instead 
of  northward.  Passed  clean  behind  Beaver  Creek 
station;  so  the  hosses  struck  on  for  Bijou,  but  they 
didn't  want  to.  The  wind's  not  due  south.  It's  a  bit 
south  of  west.  Drift  along,  hosses!  Good  boys! 
You'd  had  to  come  here  anyway.  Me,  I'm  hungry 
enough  to  eat  old  Jenny." 

"So  am  I,"  George  admitted.  "Eat  her  raw,  on 
the  hoof." 

Bijou  station  it  was,  twenty  miles  west  of  Beaver 
Creek  station !  The  horses  strove  gallantly ;  and,  as  the 
sun  commenced  to  peep  out,  Terry,  sitting  in  true  pro- 
fessional style,  with  George,  arms  folded,  posing  as 
messenger,  drove  at  a  rattling  trot  to  the  end  of  his 
"run." 

"Hi-i  yup !"  And  he  braked  and  gathered  the  lines 
to  toss  them  down. 

The  station  hands  jumped  to  catch  them  and  un- 
hook the  wet  team. 

"Hey!  What  are  you  doing  up  there?"  challenged 
the  station-keeper,  appearing  with  another  man. 
"Where's  Trotter?" 

"Inside.  He's  sick."  And  Terry  descended  from 
one  end  of  the  box,  George  from  the  other. 

"Where  did  you  take  charge?    At  Beaver?" 

"No.    We  were  hoofing  it  to  Kelly's  for  some  stock. 


156          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

The  Injuns  cleaned  us  out  last  night.  Found  the  coach 
going  every  which  way,  off  the  road,  between  Beaver 
and  Kelly's.  What  time  is  it?" 

"Near  noon.     Did  you  come  straight  through?" 

"Straight  as  we  could,  but  we  never  saw  Beaver." 
Terry  staggered.  He  had  done  most  cf  the  driving, 
and  was  as  tired  as  the  horses.  "You've  got  Bill  to 
'tend  to,  and  six  passengers  to  feed." 

"We'll  give  'em  the  best  we've  got.  You  and  that 
other  cub  had  better  go  on  in." 

"Good  work,  boys,"  praised  the  second  man,  who 
proved  to  be  Mr.  Alex.  Benham,  the  new  division 
agent. 

They  lingered  a  minute  to  see  the  stage  opened.  The 
passengers  began  to  bundle  out,  right  glad  to  be  in 
safety.  There  were  two  men;  then  Driver  Bill,  limp 
and  wabbly,  and  supported  by  the  two  men.  Then 
another  man,  in  shawl  and  army  overcoat,  who  helped 
a  woman  out.  And,  as  the  pair  turned  and  straight- 
ened, Terry  uttered  a  yelp  of  astonishment;  made  a 
jump  for  them. 

"Ma!    Dad!    How'd  you  get  in  there?" 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

TERRY    IS    A    KING    WHIP 

Now  it  was  after  dinner.  Driver  Trotter  had  been 
put  to  bed,  to  recover  from  the  colic  that  had  so 
doubled  him  up,  but  with  the  food  and  the  rest,  and 
the  glad  excitement  of  meeting  his  "folks,"  Terry  was 
a  new  man.  So  was  George,  his  staunch  assistant. 
Nothing  could  phaze  George. 

Father  and  Mother  Richards  were  booked  clear 
through  to  California.  They  had  sold  their  interests 
in  the  mine,  the  Stantons  probably  were  going  to  sell 
theirs;  and  Father  Richards  was  taking  a  trip  across 
partly  for  his  health  and  partly  to  look  around.  He 
had  been  honorably  discharged  from  the  army ;  his  leg 
had  given  out  and  his  wound  had  farther  crippled  him. 
His  soldier  days  were  over,  at  present. 

There  was  so  much  to  talk  about  that  Terry  was  not 
half  through  the  budget  of  chatter;  but  the  stage  was 
standing  ready,  with  five  fresh  mules  hooked  to  it. 
Shucks !  He  might  not  see  the  folks  again  for  a  month 
or  two. 

Agent  Benham  called  him. 

"Can  you  take  this  stage  on  to  Latham?"  Mr.  Ben- 
ham  asked  abruptly. 

157 


158          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Why— sure  thing,  Mr.  Benham." 

'"Good !  The  coach  from  the  west  hasn't  turned  up 
yet.  It's  long  past  due  and  must  have  had  a  break- 
down somewhere.  The  extra  driver  who's  supposed  to 
be  here  went  to  a  dance  up  the  Bijou  last  night,  and 
hasn't  reported,  either.  And  we  can't  trust  any  of 
these  hostlers;  they're  not  driver  stuff  for  that  road 
ahead." 

"But  we've  left  the  station-keeper  all  alone  at 
Beaver,  Mr.  Benham." 

"I'll  fix  that.  I'll  send  a  team  and  a  couple  of  host- 
lers to  him  right  away,  and  soon  fill  him  out  with 
plenty  of  help.  If  you'll  drive  on  to  Latham  and  want 
to  take  your  pardner  along  on  the  box  with  you,  I'll 
dead-head  you  both  through  to  Salt  Lake  and  return. 
The  passengers  spoke  of  making  up  a  purse  for  you, 
but  the  Overland  company  appreciates  your  pluck  and 
decision  in  bringing  the  coach  in,  and  you  deserve  a 
vacation.  There  was  a  woman  aboard,  and  consider- 
able valuable  express,  not  to  speak  of  Bill.  Chances 
are  you  saved  his  life.  Anyway,  Ben  Holladay  is  on 
the  lookout  for  that  kind  of  work.  The  company  will 
round-trip  you  to  Salt  Lake,  on  full  wages,  expenses 
paid.  That'll  get  you  acquainted  with  the  road  on 
the  Eastern  and  Central  divisions,  make  an  Overland 
man  of  you,  and  you  can  have  a  good  visit  with  your 
father  and  mother  on  the  way.  Same  as  to  your  pard- 
ner. What  do  you  say?" 

"I'd  drive  to  Latham  without  that,  Mr.  Benham," 
stammered  Terry.  "I  don't  want  extra  for  it.  But, 
of  course,  we'd  be  plumb  tickled  to  make  the  Salt  Lake 


TERRY  IS  A  KING  WHIP  159 

trip.  I  should  say  yes!  I  wouldn't  want  to  leave 
Harry  in  the  lurch,  though,  that  is  all." 

"That  will  be  arranged.  We'll  watch  out  for  Beaver 
Creek  till  you  get  back.  All  right.  Tell  your  pardner, 
and  climb  aboard.  You've  got  a  spike  team,  but  the 
road's  plain,  and  this  snow  has  settled  the  sand,  so 
you'll  make  Latham  without  trouble." 

Terry  rushed  for  George,  and  George  performed  a 
silent  little  war-dance. 

"We're  going  on  to  Salt  Lake  with  you,  Ma,"  Terry 
announced.  "I'm  to  drive  as  far  as  Latham.  You  and 
dad  sit  outside." 

"Oh,  Terry!"  And  his  mother  evidently  was  all 
swelled  up  with  pride  and  delight.  His  father  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"You  talk  as  if  you  were  quite  a  man,  already." 

"All  'board !"  summoned  Driver  Terry.  "Stage  for 
Latham." 

He  and  George  climbed  to  the  box.  His  father  and 
mother  took  the  elevated  seat  behind.  The  other  pas- 
sengers entered,  below.  The  lines  were  passed  up, 
the  hostler  at  the  bits  of  the  lead  mules  sprang  aside, 
Terry  kicked  the  brake  free,  whirled  the  lash  of  Bill 
Trotter's  handsome  whip,  and  the  heavy  coach  moved 
to  the  plunge  of  the  well-trained  team. 

"Hi !  Wait  a  minute !"  arose  the  shout  behind.  He 
pulled  the  team  down,  and  set  the  brake  again. 

Mr.  Benham  was  running  after. 

"Here's  your  pass.  I'm  going  the  other  way.  And 
here's  expense  money  for  incidentals.  The  pass  guar- 
antees your  meals  at  the  stations,  as  employees  of  the 


160          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

company.     Take  a  week  in  Salt  Lake.     Good-bye." 
"Thanks,  very  much,  Mr.  Benham.    We'll  be  back, 

all  right.     Gwan  with  you,  mules !    Yip !"     And  they 

were  off  once  more. 

"Let's  see?"  asked  George. 

Terry  straightened  out  the  team,  and  handed  the 

paper  to  him. 

Pass  bearers,  Terry  Richards  and  George  Stan- 
ton,  employees  of  the  Overland  Stage  Line, 
Beaver  Creek  station,  to  Salt  Lake  and  return,  in- 
cluding Denver,  with  subsistence  en  route. 

ALEX.  BENHAM, 
Agt.  Julesburg-Denver  Div. 

"What's  that  'subsistence'?"  queried  George,  read- 
ing. 

"Same  old  fat  bacon  served  other  side  up,  I  reckon," 
laughed  Terry. 

It  was  a  spike  team  that  he  was  driving,  of  five 
mules.  There  were  the  two  wheel  mules,  and  the  two 
swing  mules,  and  a  single  mule  as  the  leader.  The 
road  from  Bijou  to  the  next  station,  Fremont's  Or- 
chard, was  through  such  a  bare,  sandy,  desolate  coun- 
try, of  heavy  pulling,  that  a  spike  team  was  rather 
more  easily  managed  than  sixes. 

But  the  snow  had  settled  the  sand,  the  sun  shone 
warmly,  and  at  times  the  mules  broke  into  a  trot. 
Some  persons  would  have  called  this  stretch  of  sixteen 
miles  very  monotonous.  There  was  nothing  to  see, 
nearer  than  the  mountains,  still  far  westward.  How- 


TERRY  IS  A  KING  WHIP  161 

ever,  to  be  a  regularly  appointed  driver,  "boss"  of  a 
fourteen-passenger  coach,  with  one's  own  father  and 
mother  sitting  close  behind  and  watching  a  fellow  drive 
like  a  king  whip,  struck  Terry  as  being  about  the  last 
word  in  fun. 

They  forged  on,  mile  after  mile. 

"Going  to  let  me  drive  where  the  road's  good?" 
asked  George. 

"Can't  do  it,  George.    I'm  responsible  for  the  load." 

"What's  the  schedule,  anyway?" 

"They're  allowed  five  hours.  But  I  guess  we  can 
clip  that." 

"Take  your  time,  Terry,"  his  father  cautioned. 
"We're  late  and  you  won't  be  expected  to  make  the 
schedule." 

"Keep  a-going,  that's  Overland  orders,"  replied 
Terry.  "Drivers  are  expected  to  make  schedule  if  they 
can.  If  they  can't,  they  hear  from  Holladay." 

"There  comes  the  other  coach." 

So  it  did,  at  last.  In  a  wider  part  of  the  road,  be- 
fore, it  halted,  so  Terry  halted  opposite,  and  saluted 
with  his  whip. 

The  other  driver,  who  was  "Rowdy  Pete,"  stared 
and  grinned.  The  passengers  atop  also  grinned. 

"What's  this?  A  cub  outfit  traveling  go-as-you- 
please?"  "Rowdy  Pete"  bantered.  "Where's  the  reg- 
ular coach?" 

"You're  looking  at  it,"  informed  Terry. 

"Didn't  know  but  what  you  were  special,  with  Ben 
Holladay  inside,  and  this  is  to-morrow's  coach  ahead 
of  time,"  said  Pete  sarcastically. 


1 62          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"That's  better  than  yesterday's  coach  behind  time 
to-day,"  Terry  joked.  "This  coach  had  a  sick  driver, 
other  side  of  Beaver.  Where  have  you  fellows  been?" 

"Busted  down.    Any  war  news  ?" 

"Not  this  trip ;  but  plenty's  coming." 

"Can  I  trade  you  for  a  chaw  of  tobacco  ?" 

"Nope,  thank  you,"  laughed  Terry. 

"Rowdy  Pete"  sprang  his  brake,  his  team  surged 
forward.  "So  long,"  he  bade,  with  raise  of  whip. 
"So  long,"  answered  Terry,  starting  his  own  team. 
And  they  parted  in  true  professional  fashion. 

Fremont's  Orchard  was  reached  in  four  hours  and 
a  half.  It  was  named  "Orchard"  because  of  a  little 
group  of  cottonwood  trees,  the  first  trees  in  the  sixteen 
miles  from  Bijou. 

Terry  stopped  only  fifteen  minutes,  or  long  enough 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  all  'round.  He  intended  to  get  to 
Latham,  twenty-three  miles,  by  dark  and  in  time  for 
a  good  night's  rest,  if  he  could.  The  road  was  now 
better,  and  they  easily  made  Eagle's  Nest,  eleven  miles. 

Half  way  to  Latham,  from  Eagle's  Nest,  the  sun 
had  set.  Presently  he  had  to  send  George  down  to 
light  the  coach  lamps.  The  horses  knew  the  road  bet- 
ter than  he ;  he  had  only  to  let  them  go ;  and  with  lamps 
burning  and  harness  gaily  jingling,  in  the  early  dark- 
ness he  delivered  his  load  safely  at  Latham. 

"Bet  you're  tired,  boy,"  proffered  George,  as  Terry 
threw  aside  the  bunch  of  lines,  and  relieved  his  aching 
arms.  "How  far've  you  held  the  ribbons?  About 
fifty  miles  ?" 

"Only  thirty-nine,  this  last  stretch  from  Bijou.    You 


TERRY  IS  A  KING  WHIP  163 

spelled  me  on  that  first  stretch,  you  know.  Fifty  miles 
is  no  run  at  all.  When  a  fellow  doubles  up  and  drives 
a  hundred  miles  without  rest,  then  he  can  talk.  That's 
what  Sol  used  to  do." 

"Well,  seems  to  me  we've  been  driving  about  a 
week,"  George  declared.  "Started  out  before  break- 
fast to  go  to  American  Ranch,  and  here  we  are  away  in 
the  other  direction  bound  for  Salt  Lake!  I'd 
give  a  dollar  to  know  what  Harry's  thinking,  and 
whether  Jenny  or  Duke  has  come  home.  And  how 
Shep  is." 

At  any  rate,  bed  felt  mighty  soft ;  and  there  was  no 
hurry  about  getting  up,  either,  for  the  Salt  Lake  and 
California  stage  out  of  Latham  did  not  start  until  near 
noon. 

Latham  proved  to  be  as  busy  a  place  as  Julesburg 
had  been.  There  were  only  the  station  house  and 
stables,  but  in  the  morning  four  coaches  stood  waiting 
their  turn :  two  for  Denver,  sixty  miles  south,  up  the 
Platte,  with  delayed  mail  and  passengers  from  east 
and  west ;  one  for  Kansas,  and  one  for  Utah,  Nevada 
and  California. 

All  the  mail  that  came  in  had  to  be  assorted  and 
transferred ;  and  here  passengers  changed,  to  continue 
in  one  direction  or  another.  'So  Latham,  located  where 
the  South  Platte  curved  sharply  to  the  southwest,  for 
its  head  in  the  mountains,  was  an  important  junction 
point. 

"How  far  to  Salt  Lake,  now  ?"  asked  George. 

"Five  hundred  and  seventy  miles — about  as  far  as 
to  the  Missouri  River." 


164          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"What'll  we  do?  Ride  outside  all  the  way?  I'll 
stump  you." 

"Of  course,"  answered  Terry.  "That's  the  only 
place.  We  want  to  see  all  we  can.  If  there's  no  room 
on  the  seat  we'll  ride  on  the  top." 

The  Denver  and  the  Missouri  River  stages  had 
rolled  out.  The  west-bound  driver  was  about  to  climb 
on. 

"All  'board!"  he  shouted.  "Salt  Lake,  California 
and  way-points!  All  'board!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HANK    CONNER   DOES    HIS   BEST 

THE  coach  was  one  of  the  old  reliable  nine-passenger 
kind,  with  space  for  two  on  the  box  with  the  driver. 
The  boot  behind  was  crammed  full  of  mail  and  delayed 
express,  and  several  sacks  and  valises  were  tied  on  the 
flat  top.  But  there  were  only  four  passengers  (not 
counting  the  two  dead-heads)  :  Terry's  father  and 
mother,  and  a  woman  alone,  and  a  man  who  grabbed 
the  box  seat  before  anybody  else  could. 

He  had  been  sitting  and  holding  it  half  an  hour — a 
smartish,  youngish  man  in  a  large-checkered,  sporty 
overcoat  loosely  belted,  and  a  black-banded  white  hat, 
and  a  flashing  diamond  ring  on  his  little  finger. 

As  he  occupied  half  the  box,  Terry  and  George 
promptly  cleared  a  place  for  themselves  amidst  the  bag- 
gage on  the  top,  and,  facing  fore  and  aft,  sat  back  to 
back,  with  their  feet  braced  against  the  rail. 

The  driver  was  Hank  Conner — and  he  was  a 
"daisy,"  as  the  new  slang  put  it:  one  of  the  jolliest 
and  very  best  drivers  on  the  whole  Overland  line.  You 
could  see  that  by  the  way  he  cocked  his  hat  at  a  rakish 
slant,  sat  upright  with  his  feet  well  planted,  assorted 

165 


i66          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

the  lines  between  the  fingers  of  one  hand  and  shook 
out  his  whiplash. 

He  shot  a  shrewd  glance  at  the  man  in  the  checkered 
coat,  and  another  at  the  boys  on  the  top. 

"All  ready,  you  cubs?"  he  demanded. 

"Let  her  go,  Hank!" 

"Clang!"  went  the  brake.  "Crack!"  snapped  the 
lash  above  the  lead  horses ;  and  the  coach  jumped. 

They  were  off  for  the  mountains,  and  the  other  side. 
First  run,  thirty-five  miles,  to  Laporte. 

"Can  you  swim  ?"  called  back  Hank,  over  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  we'd  rather  not,"  added  George. 

"Better  stand  up,  then,  so  the  water  won't  be  over 
your  heads.  'Fraid  those  folks  inside  are  going  to  get 
wet.  You  see,  this  coach  hasn't  been  calked  yet,  ferry- 
boat style.  Has  too  much  windows."  And 

"Feet  up!"  yelled  Hank,  as  the  road  suddenly  ended 
at  the  river. 

The  Platte  River  had  to  be  crossed  by  the  west- 
bound coaches.  There  was  no  bridge,  the  water  eddied 
darkly  without  sign  of  ford  except  the  road  that  en- 
tered on  this  bank  and  came  out  on  the  other  bank; 
with  crack  of  whip  and  sundry  yelps  and  shouts,  Hank 
sent  the  team  straight  in  at  a  trot.  They  splashed 
high,  the  coach  dipped,  the  current  surged  against  the 
wheels,  rose  to  the  body — the  inside  passengers  cried 
in  alarm.  "Wet  feet,"  laughed  Hank.  "They  ought 
to  Jve  wore  gum  boots!" — the  coach  hesitated,  but  he 
never  quit  with  whip  and  voice — the  team  snorted  and 


HANK  CONNER  DOES  HIS  BEST     167 

tugged  and  strained — and  out  clambered  the  dripping 
leaders,  and  the  dripping  swing  pair,  and  the  dripping 
wheel  pair,  and  the  coach  followed. 

"Twenty  feet  deeper  and  we'd  been  afloat/'  re- 
marked Hank.  "Everybody  satisfied?" 

"Are  you  all  right,  Ma  ?"  called  Terry,  over  the  edge. 

"Yes.  But  the  water  came  inside.  It  covered  the 
floor." 

"Never  mind,  ma'am,"  encouraged  Hank.  "It'll  go 
out  the  same  way.  Ben  Holladay's  arranged  for  that. 
You  don't  have  to  open  the  door." 

The  horses  toiled  up  a  little  grade,  with  Hank  let- 
ting them  take  their  time. 

"This  is  what  you  call  staging  in  this  country,  is  it?" 
asked  the  passenger  on  the  box. 

"Yes,  sir.     That's  what  it's  supposed  to  be." 

"And  those  are  good  horses,  according  to  the 
notion  ?" 

"Averagely  fair,"  said  Hank.  "Not  to  brag  of,  but 
averagely  fair." 

The  man  in  the  checkered  coat  laughed  to  himself. 

"Oh,  my  word!"  he  uttered.  "If  you  could  see  the 
way  they  do  things  where  I  come  from !" 

"And  where  might  that  be  ?"  inquired  Hank. 

"Abroad,  my  man.  On  the  continent.  The  land  of 
the  real  coaching." 

"Staged  some,  have  you??"  inquired  Hank. 

"Thousands  of  miles.  Such  coaches,  such  horses, 
and  such  drivers !  All  this  is  pretty  crude,  you  know. 
I  rather  expected  something  better.  Ton  my  word, 
I  did." 


168          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Well,  we  do  the  best  we  can,"  apologized  Hank. 
"With  only  a  hundred  or  so  coaches  and  two  or  three 
thousand  animals  Ben  Holladay  ain't  to  be  blamed. 
He's  to  be  pitied.  We  don't  aim  to  beat  Yurope.  We 
just  aim  to  get  through,  once  in  a  while." 

"And  the  roads!  Bless  you,  they  don't  compare 
with  the  turn-pikes  in  old  England." 

"Nope,"  said  Hank.  "For  a  small  stretch,  like  from 
Atchison  to  Calif orny,  they're  right  raw,  I  reckon. 
We  sorter  counted  on  the  Injuns  to  smooth  'em  down 
and  keep  'em  fixed,  but  the  buff'ler  and  antelope  cut 
'em  up  in  wet  weather." 

George  chuckled,  and  nudged  Terry.  Hank  was 
having  a  little  fun. 

"Those  horses  don't  seem  to  have  much  action," 
pursued  the  passenger  on  the  box.  "Dear  me!  I'd 
like  to  show  you  the  teams  in  the  old  country.  Spank- 
ers, every  one.  Or  maybe  you're  a  bit  afraid  to  let 
these  nags  out — might  get  away  from  you.  I  notice 
you're  a  careful  driver." 

"Those  are  orders.  We  have  to  be  saving  of  the 
hoss-flesh,"  answered  Hank.  "Perhaps  you've  han- 
dled the  ribbons  yourself." 

"Handled  the  ribbons  ?  Bless  my  heart !  I'm  what 
you'd  call  a  'king  whip/  my  lad.  I'm  rather  a  fancy. 
Can  turn  a  coach  and  eight  on  a  shilling." 

"Do  tell !"  sighed  Hank. 

The  man  wriggled  restlessly. 

"Can't  you  show  a  little  speed  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  might  be  able  to  stir  'em  up  a  trifle,  down  hill," 


HANK  CONNER  DOES  HIS  BEST     169 

assented  Hank.  "So  they'd  keep  out  the  way  of  the 
coach." 

They  were  already  proceeding  across  a  level  space, 
at  a  lively  trot,  with  Hank  driving  perfectly.  Every 
trace  was  taut,  and  each  animal  was  doing  its  duty. 
He  occasionally  touched  up  one,  and  then  another,  to 
straighten  them  to  their  work. 

And  a  glorious  gait  this  was,  through  the  crisp  sun- 
shine, toward  the  snow-crested  mountains,  with  the 
harness  jingling  and  the  coach  rumbling  and  rocking, 
and  the  landscape  flowing  by  on  either  hand. 

Up  a  long,  easy  grade  they  swept,  at  slackened  pace. 

"Dear  me!"  complained  the  passenger  on  the  box. 
"How  long  will  we  be  in  getting  to  the  next  station? 
I'm  in  a  hurry,  but  at  this  rate — my  word !" 

"First  out  station  is  twelve  miles.  We  calculate  to 
make  it  in  less'n  ten  hours,"  asserted  Hank.  "Some 
people  prefer  to  walk,  and  some  think  riding's  easier 
on  the  feet.  They  can  take  their  choice." 

"Ten  hours?"  blurted  the  passenger.  "A  man 
could  do  it  much  quicker  afoot.  And  they  call  this 
'staging'!  I  declare!" 

The  coach  topped  the  crest  of  the  grade.  The  team 
showed  not  a  trace  of  sweat — which  proved  the  kind 
of  driver  that  Hank  was.  He  had  come  seven  miles 
in  an  hour,  and  not  pushed  his  horses. 

Now  a  long,  curving  descent  lay  before,  through 
numerous  cuts,  and  skirting  hill-slope  and  deep  creek 
bed. 

"Seeing  you're  in  a  hurry "  drawled  Hank,  and 

suddenly  he  yelped  loudly,  shook  his  lines,  and  flung 


170          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

his  lash  in  a  resounding  crack.  The  startled  team 
leaped  like  one  horse;  the  coach  jerked  to  the  leap; 
down  it  rushed,  twitched  by  the  galloping  six. 

George  and  Terry  collided,  and,  grasping  whatever 
was  nearest,  hung  tight.  The  passenger's  feet  flew  up, 
and  he,  too,  grabbed.  Away  sailed  his  hat. 

"Pick  it  up  coming  back,"  rapped  Hank.  "Yip 
with  you!  Yip!  Get  out  o'  here!  Dog-gone  such  a 
team — can't  scarcely  force  'em  out  of  a  walk !  Yip !" 

"  'Pon  my  word !"  gasped  the  passenger.  "Hold 
on." 

"Hold  on  yourself,"  retorted  Hank.  "Just  hold  on, 
and  I'll  get  you  through  before  supper.  I'd  hate  to  be 
caught  on  this  road  after  dark.  Didn't  know  you 
were  in  a  hurry.  Sorry  I've  such  a  slow  team,  but 
I'll  help  'em  all  I  can." 

His  lash  cracked  again  and  again;  he  yelled  and 
whooped.  The  gait  seemed  terrific.  The  coach 
bounded  and  swerved,  the  harness  jingled  furiously, 
the  baggage  tossed — and  so  did  the  "top"  passengers. 
Curves  were  taken  on  two  wheels ;  several  times  it 
looked  as  though  the  coach  was  going  straight  over  a 
sheer  bank,  into  the  creek  below — but  somehow  it 
always  escaped. 

"Gee  whizz!"  stammered  George,  who  was  facing 
rearward.  "What  they  doing?  Running  away?" 

Anybody  might  think  so,  but  Terry  speedily  saw 
different.  He  was  a  "whip"  himself,  and  knew  the 
kinks.  The  team  was  by  no  means  running  at  large. 
Hank  made  no  special  showing,  yet  he  kept  the  upper 
hand  all  right.  The  horses  were  never  out  of  control ; 


HANK  CONNER  DOES  HIS  BEST     171 

not  for  a  moment.  The  lax  lines  were  always  tight- 
ened at  the  proper  instant  to  swing  the  leaders  and 
hold  them  to  their  feet ;  the  brake  occasionally  ground, 
at  the  curves;  the  horses  knew  their  business  also — 
and  when  they  ran  free  they  made  the  curves  without 
guiding.  The  heavy  coach  thundered  after. 

"Hi !  Hold  on !"  implored  the  passenger.  "This  is 
no  way  to  drive,  my  man.  We'll  all  be  upset." 

"I'll  get  you  through,  if  nothing  busts,"  Hank  com- 
forted. "Mebbe  you'd  like  to  take  the  ribbons. 
There's  a  bad  curve  ahead.  I'm  doing  the  best  I  can, 
but  I'd  like  to  learn.  Burn  such  a  slow  team  anyhow. 
Ben  Holladay  ought  to  be  'shamed  of  himself !  Lucky 
we're  going  down  hill.  Will  you  change  seats?  I'm 
'fraid  of  that  curve.  I  shorely  am.  It's  the  kind  that 
needs  a  smart  driver  who  can  handle  hosses." 

The  passenger  only  clung  hard  and  made  no  move 
to  take  the  lines.  Hank's  lash  shot  out  again,  and  he 
yelped.  The  curve  was  close  before — seemed  to  be 
almost  at  right  angle,  with  a  shoulder  on  the  right 
and  a  steep  slope  dropping  downward  on  the  left. 

The  leaders  hit  it — veered  sharply,  their  hoofs  slid- 
ing; around  they  sped,  around  sped  swing  team  and 
pole  team,  Terry  heard  the  brakes  bite,  but  the  coach, 
changing  direction  in  a  hurry,  tilted  sideways  on  two 
wheels,  his  heart  popped  into  his  throat — and  with  a 
wild  yell  of  fright  the  box  passenger  hurdled  over- 
board. 

He  made  a  prodigious  frantic  jump  for  safety,  and 
went  rolling  and  plunging  down  the  steep  slope, 
ploughing  the  bush  and  gravel.  The  coach  righted  to 


172          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

four  wheels  again,  Hank  began  to  check  the  team ;  and 
gazing  back  they  had  just  time  to  see  the  passenger 
come  to  a  stop,  and  scramble  up  and  stare  about. 

"Whoopee !"  cheered  Hank,  bringing  the  team  down 
to  a  brisk  trot,  here  at  the  foot  of  the  grade.  "I  was 
trying  my  level  best  and  he  gets  plumb  disgusted  with 
the  whole  shebang  and  off  he  jumps !  Well,  well !" 

"Aren't  you  going  to  wait  for  him,  Hank?" 

"Not  by  a  jugful.  Tain't  far  to  the  station.  He 
said  he  could  hoof  it  quicker  than  the  way  these  here 
Western  stages  travel,  and  like  as  not  he  can.  So  you 
two  fellows  can  okkipy  the  box,  if  you  want  to.  He 
left  quite  a  hole." 

They  crawled  forward.  The  coach  top  was  littered 
with  the  shaken  baggage. 

"All  right  below?"  hailed  Hank,  of  the  inside  pas- 
sengers. 

"Yes;  but  what  was  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  We  had  a  man  in  a  hurry,  but  he's 
gone  on  afoot.  Once  in  a  while  a  driver  gets  a  smart- 
alick  like  that,"  added  Hank,  to  his  box  company,  "who 
lays  out  to  tell  us  all  he  knows  and  a  bit  more — but 
he  doesn't  last  long.  He  empties  his  brains  through 
his  mouth  and  then  the  atmosphere  caves  him  in.  Fact 
is,"  continued  Hank,  "I  don't  much  believe  in  heaving 
bouquets  or  brickbats  promiscuous  till  you're  sure  of 
your  aim.  How-some-ever,  in  my  private  opinion,  Ben 
Holladay's  Overland  has  other  staging,  the  world  over, 
licked  to  a  frazzle.  It's  got  the  coaches,  the  men, 
and  the  animals,  and  it  makes  a  2,ooomile  schedule 
right  to  the  dot,  barring  accidents." 


HANK  CONNOR  DOES  HIS  BEST     173 

"Golly,  but  we  shore  came  down  that  hill !"  George 
enthused. 

"Shucks,  now!  That  wouldn't  be  a  wrinkle  on  the 
Pioneer  line — the  Calif orny  end  of  the  Overland. 
There's  where  they  have  staging!  Twenty-four  pas- 
sengers to  a  coach,  mountain  roads  of  a  hundred  miles 
of  solid  granite,  drivers  in  yaller  gloves  and  silk  shirts 
and  polished  boots,  and  hosses  kept  at  a  dead  gallop 
mile  in  and  mile  out,  with  only  six  inches  to  spare  for 
the  outside  wheels,  sometimes.  Schedule,  twelve  miles 
an  hour — seventy  miles,  including  stops,  in  ten  hours ! 
That's  staging." 

At  the  trot  they  drew  into  the  first  out  station,  which 
was  only  a  small  ranch  where  change  of  horses  was 
kept. 

"There'll  be  a  pilgrim  along  after  a  while,"  Hank 
announced.  "He  got  off  to  look  for  his  hat,  I  reckon, 
a  small  piece  back.  May  want  to  take  the  next  stage 
east." 

"What  kind  of  lookin'  man,  Hank?" 

"Dunno  how  he  looks  now." 

In  five  minutes  they  all  were  moving  again,  behind 
a  fresh  team  of  four.  The  route  led  steadily  for  the 
mountains,  which  waxed  larger  but  no  nearer,  as  is  the 
habit  with  mountains. 

Twenty-five  miles  distant  they  were  still,  said  Hank. 
Laporte,  the  home  station  at  the  end  of  the  run,  was 
not  far  from  them,  but  could  not  be  reached  until  after 
dark. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  snowy  range  when 
the  next  change  of  team  was  made. 


174          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"What's  the  war  news,  Hank?  I  haven't  seen  a 
paper  less'n  a  week  old  for  a  coon's  age." 

"Blamed  if  I  know.  I  set  out  to  take  the  Denver 
paper,  but  somebody  steals  it  'fore  it  gets  to  me. 
They're  still  fighting,  though." 

"Any  Injun  troubles  down  the  line?" 

"A  passel  o'  varmints  cleaned  out  Beaver  Creek, 
these  boys  say,  but  didn't  kill  anybody.  What's  the 
news  up  the  line?" 

"You're  like  to  run  into  a  high  old  time.  Slade  and 
some  of  his  gang  are  on  a  tarant'lar-juice  rampage  at 
Laporte,  I  hear  tell.  Sorter've  took  possession." 

"Sho',  now,"  remarked  Hank,  as  he  gathered  the 
lines.  "I  reckon  if  we  mind  our  own  business  we'll 
keep  our  scalps.  G'  lang,  mules !" 

"That's  great  doings  for  a  division  superintendent," 
he  volunteered,  to  the  boys,  as  the  coach  rolled  on. 
"Slade's  a  good  man  [it  was  the  same  Slade  whom 
Terry  had  seen  at  Julesburg]  ;•  he  pacified  Julesburg 
and  the  old  Rocky  Ridge  Division,  but  since  he's  been 
transferred  to  this  North  Platte  Division  he's  turning 
bad.  Has  a  notion  that  he  owns  the  country — 'spe- 
cially when  he  fills  up  on  forty-rod  pizen.  That's  the 
trouble  with  some  of  these  men  who  are  free  with  a 
gun.  They  get  so  they  think  they  have  a  license  to 
shoot  up  the  landscape  whenever  they  please." 

The  coach  lamps  had  been  lighted.  The  darkness 
thickened  rapidly,  while  the  coach  lunged  up  hill  and 
down,  on  a  never-ending  road  bordered  by  the  whitely 
gleaming  sage.  George  nodded  and  drooped,  and 
leaned  against  Terry.  Terry  nodded — he  scarcely 


HANK  CONNER  DOES  HIS  BEST     175 

could  hold  his  eyes  open,  and  finally  he  let  them  stay 
shut.  There  wasn't  much  to  see. 

He  and  George  slept,  bolstering  each  other  up;  for 
the  next  that  they  knew  a  ferocious  yell  rang  in  their 
ears,  jarring  them  both  awake. 

It  was  only  Hank's  stage-driver  whoop  of  "Whoo 
wah-ah-ah-ah !"  signaling  the  station.  In  the  near  dis- 
tance before  there  blinked  several  lights. 

"Laporte,  then  supper,  then  bed  for  Yours  Truly," 
spoke  Hank.  "I  missed  my  sleep  complete  last 
night." 

In  the  approach  to  Laporte  a  scattering  of  log 
cabins  and  other  shacks  was  dimly  revealed — for 
Laporte  had  been  a  boom  town  during  the  Pike's  Peak 
rush  in  1859.  But  tne  chief  signs  of  life  seemed  to  be 
centered  around  the  station  house.  Yells  and  loud 
laughter,  wild  cheers  and  singing  and  revolver  shots 
sounded,  figures  crossed  and  recrossed  the  lights 

"Some  fellows  on  a  tear,  sure  enough,"  said  Hank. 
"You  and  the  rest  just  mind  your  own  business  and 
keep  in  the  station  house  until  the  next  stage  pulls  out, 
and  you  won't  come  to  any  harm.  The  boys  respect 
women/' 

As  he  set  the  brake,  the  stage  was  greeted  by  a 
volley,  right,  left,  and  straight  up,  punctuating  the 
darkness  with  red  streaks.  Hank  coolly  tossed  his 
lines  to  the  hostlers,  followed  by  the  two  boys,  climbed 
down  into  a  half-circle  of  cheering,  roughly-dressed 
men,  and  opened  the  coach  door. 

"This  way  into  the  station,  ladies  and  gents,"  he 


1 76          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

bade.  "Go  right  along.  Supper's  ready.  You'll  be 
called  at  proper  time." 

Terry's  father  stepped  out  first 

"Here's  a  blue-coat,"  yelled  somebody. 

Terry's  mother  stepped  out  second 

"Make  way  for  the  lady!" 

The  woman  with  the  baby  stepped  out  third 

"An'  don't  wake  the  baby!" 

With  Hank  leading,  and  Terry's  father  bringing  up 
the  rear,  the  little  party  hustled  through  the  lane  that 
had  been  formed,  into  the  station  house. 

The  stench  of  liquor  hung  in  the  air,  but  the  crowd 
seemed  good-natured. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE 

THE  station-keeper's  wife  had  prepared  the  supper. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  things,"  she  proffered  as  she 
finished  setting  the  table.  "We're  considerable  upset. 
Jack  Slade  and  a  party  are  on  a  rampage.  They've 
been  here  all  day,  getting  worse  and  worse.  They've 
cleaned  out  the  grocery  store — just  thrown  stuff  every 
which  way,  and  ducked  the  storekeeper  in  the  vinegar 
barrel.  It's  the  liquor.  Slade's  awful  when  he's  got 
liquor  in  him.  You  won't  any  of  you  be  harmed, 
though,  if  you  just  go  your  way  and  pay  no  attention. 
But  all  this  confusion  has  sort  of  spoiled  supper.  I 
guess  the  company  won't  keep  Slade  long,  if  he  acts 
this  way  at  the  stations.  He  ought  to  be  arrested  and 
jailed — but  seems  like  everybody's  afraid  of  hint." 

The  supper  tasted  good,  although  it  was  eaten 
rather  nervously.  The  call  for  the  stage  was  long 
delayed.  Outside,  the  tumult  continued — rough  talk- 
ing, singing,  hap-hazard  shooting,  scuffling  and  run- 
ning about.  Hank  Conner  had  gone  to  bed.  As  he 
explained,  he  had  to  have  his  sleep,  for  he  went  out 
in  the  morning.  The  Terry  party  sat,  waiting  and 
listening. 

177 


1 78          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Maybe  we'd  better  stay  over  and  take  another 
stage,  after  those  men  have  left,"  proposed  his  mother 
anxiously.  "We  can  get  beds  here,  can't  we?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  dare  stay,"  faltered  the  other  woman, 
who  had  the  baby.  "I've  got  to  go  right  on.  My  hus- 
band is  sick — he's  expecting  me." 

"We'll  all  go  on,"  said  Terry's  father.  "We  cer- 
tainly won't  let  you  leave  alone.  Besides,  we  might  be 
held  up  here  several  days,  if  the  west-bound  stages 
happen  to  be  full.  If  we  gave  up  our  seats  we'd  have 
to  take  our  chances.  That's  the  company  rule." 

They  waited,  and  listened,  and  dozed.  At  last  the 
call  came. 

"All  'board,"  summoned  the  station-keeper  hastily, 
through  the  doorway.  "Get  right  in.  There's  noth- 
ing to  be  afraid  of,  so  get  right  in.  Pay  no  attention 
to  those  fellows.  They're  acting  rough,  but  it's  mostly 
horse-play." 

Out  they  went.  A  half-moon  had  risen,  and  by  the 
light  of  that  and  of  the  coach  lamps  the  scene  was  not 
very  encouraging.  Six  mules  had  been  put  to  the 
coach.  The  six  were  plunging  and  kicking — they  ap- 
peared to  be  only  partly  broken  to  harness,  and  there 
was  a  hostler  hanging  to  the  bits  of  each  pair,  trying 
to  hold  them. 

A  yelling,  swearing  group  jeered  at  the  hostlers  and 
applauded  the  mules;  revolvers  were  barking,  and  a 
wiry,  active  man  wearing  two  guns  was  repeatedly 
thrusting  another  man  aside  and  reaching  for  the  box. 

This  was  Slade. 

"No  more  words  out  of  you,"  he  ordered  harshly. 


A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE     179 

"I'm  the  boss.  I'm  Jack  Slade.  That's  my  private 
team.  I  don't  allow  no  man  to  drive  that  team  when 
I'm  around.  'Twouldn't  be  safe  for  them — or  for  him, 
either.  Now " 

"But,  Mister  Slade,  this  is  my  run,"  argued  the 
other  man,  who  was  the  driver.  "You  wouldn't  have 
me  miss  my  run,  would  you?  I'd  lose  my  job  if  Ben 
Holladay-—  " 

"Who's  Ben  Holladay?  I'm  a  bigger  man  than 
Ben  Holladay.  Where  is  he  ?  I'll  clip  his  coat  buttons 
at  twenty  yards.  And  I  mean  to  drive  this  team.  No 
measly  coyote  of  a  red-headed  bull-whacker  is  going 
to  keep  a  boss  king  whip  off  that  box.  You  know  my 
name,  don't  you?" 

"But,  Mister  Slade !" 

Slade  hurled  the  driver  aside. 

"All  'board!     Where  are  those  passengers?" 

"You'd  better  get  right  in,  ladies  and  gents,"  be- 
sought the  station-keeper.  "Don't  mind  what  you 
see." 

"Oh,  I  must,"  gasped  the  woman  with  the  baby; 
and  in  she  darted. 

"That  settles  it  for  us  too,"  firmly  remarked  Father 
Richards.  "Everybody  in;  but  I'll  report  this  to  the 
company." 

"Haw!  haw!  Report  Jack  Slade?"  laughed  the 
drunken  group. 

"Who'll  report  Jack  Slade?"  blared  Slade  himself, 
pausing  in  his  climb  to  the  box. 

"I  will,  sir,"  retorted  Terry's  father.  "This  whole 
affair  is  an  outrage.  You're  an  employee  of  the  com- 


i8o          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

pany — you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  as  a  man 
and  as  a  company  official." 

Slade's  hand  fell  to  a  revolver  butt,  and  he  glared 
fiercely.  Father  Richards  glared  back. 

"You  can't  frighten  me,  sir.  I've  got  these  women 
to  protect,  and  I've  faced  powder  and  ball  too  often 
to  be  cowed  by  any  tipsy  desperado." 

"Ralph!"  Terry's  mother  implored  in  alarm. 

"You  talk  as  if  you  were  a  fighting  man,"  sneered 
Slade.  "Where'd  you  get  that  blue  overcoat?" 

"I  earned  it,  sir.  Where's  yours?  Show  your 
colors." 

"Ralph!"  implored  Terry's  mother.  "You  aren't 
strong  enough.  Think  of  us." 

"I  size  you  up,"  spoke  Slade.  "All  right;  but  I 
wouldn't  swallow  much  of  that  language ;  no,  not  from 
General  Grant  himself.  If  you're  going  on  with  those 
women  you'd  better  pile  inside  and  save  your  breath. 
I'll  show  you  all  some  fancy  driving." 

They  all  bundled  in— that  is,  all  but  Terry.  Sud- 
denly, at  the  last  moment,  an  idea  struck  him. 

"I'll  stay  outside,"  he  called,  as  he  slammed  the 
door  on  George's  heels ;  and  without  waiting  for  reply 
he  ran  around  and  sprang  up  to  the  box.  Some  sober 
man,  who  could  drive,  ought  to  be  there,  in  case ! 

He  was  just  in  time.  The  drunken  crew  also  were 
swarming  aboard — cheering  and  cursing  and  scram- 
bling up  the  sides,  for  top  and  box.  He  won  his 
place;  but  before  he  had  settled,  Slade,  lines  and  whip 
in  hands,  shouted,  "Let  'er  go!"  The  hostlers  dived 
free  of  the  mules,  and  the  frantic  team  plunged  ahead. 


A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE     181 

"Bang !  Bang !  Bang-bang !"  celebrated  the  gang  be- 
hind him,  sprawling  over  -the  baggage,  and  pulling 
trigger. 

"Whoo-oop!"  yelled  Driver  Slade,  plying  lash  and 
shaking  the  lines.  "Hi  yip !  Yip !  Yip !" 

The  crazed  mules  tore.  The  coach  lurched  and 
bounded.  In  the  faint  moonlight  and  lamplight  the 
sage  and  brush  reeled  by. 

"Bang!  Bang-bang!  Bang!" 

"Whoo-oo-00/>/  Yip!  Lay  out!  Lay  out!  Ki-yi! 
Hi-yi !" 

How  long  was  this  thing  going  to  last,  without  a 
smash?  If  only  nothing  broke !  The  next  sta- 
tion was  ten  miles.  Could  those  mules  keep  up  the 
pace?  Tossed  and  jerked,  Terry  hung  with  both 
hands.  He  pitied  the  people  inside.  They  would  be 
frightened  almost  to  death — especially  his  mother  and 
the  woman  with  the  baby.  But  his  father  and  George 
were  there. 

Whether  he  could  do  any  good  out  here,  he  did  not 
know.  Anyway,  he  was  ready  for  action — was  ready 
to  seize  the  lines,  if  he  had  the  chance,  or  to  leap 
to  grab  the  lead  mules,  in  an  overturn,  or  open 
the  coach  door,  or  lend  quick  hand  wherever  nec- 
essary. 

Great  Scott,  what  a  ride ! 

On  they  whirled,  with  furious  drum  of  hoofs,  with 
rumble  and  groan  of  coach,  and  the  delighted  yelps 
and  revolver  shots  of  the  drunken  crew.  The  mules 
were  mad  with  terror.  Slade  never  for  an  instant 
relaxed  his  jirging  By  lash  and  voice.  Amidst  the 


182          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

uproar  not  a  sound  could  be  heard  from  the  inside 
passengers. 

Slade  suddenly  glanced  at  Terry.  His  eyes  burned 
in  his  flushed  face. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  shouted. 

"Terry  Richards." 

"Where  you  from?" 

"Beaver  Creek  station." 

"What  do  you  do  there?" 

"Hostler." 

"Where  you  going?" 

"Dead-heading  to  Salt  Lake." 

"You  are,  are  you?"  Slade  paid  attention  to  the 
mules  again,  and  returned  to  Terry.  "Dead-heading! 
Not  with  Jack  Slade !  You  work  your  passage.  You 
either  yell,  shoot  or  drive.  By  thunder,  you  take  these 
lines,  or  else  off  you  go.  I'll  make  a  cub  of  you.  I'll 
teach  you  to  drive  a  six.  Take  these  lines  and  let's 
see  your  spunk." 

He  thrust  the  bunch  of  lines,  held  in  one  hand,  at 
Terry.  Plainly  enough,  he  thought  that  he  was  bully- 
ing Terry — "hazing"  a  young  hostler  and  frightening 
him  half  to  death ;  wanted  to  hear  him  plead,  maybe. 

But  Terry  seized  the  lines  promptly.  He  had  no 
great  liking  for  the  job  of  trying  to  drive  these  run- 
away mules;  he  was  wise  and  made  no  protest,  how- 
ever— he  fooled  Jack  Slade  to  that  extent,  and  he 
resolved  that  he  might  fool  him  further.  He'd  a  heap 
rather  hold  the  lines  himself  than  have  Slade  holding 
them,  for  Slade  had  merely  let  them  hang  loose. 

Slade  kept  the  upper  hand,  though.     He  had  whip 


A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE     183 

and  brake — and  how  could  a  fellow  drive  without  the 
brake,  especially  when  the  other  man  was  using  the 
whip? 

Out  flew  the  lash — forward  sprang  the  crazed 
mules ;  all  Terry's  hauling  back  was  in  vain.  He  was 
almost  pulled  from  his  seat ;  the  stage  swerved  around 
a  curve,  scarcely  seen  before  struck,  and  he  was  well- 
nigh  hurled  overboard. 

"You  capsize  this  coach  and  I'll  have  your  scalp," 
bawled  Slade.  "Hooray !"  he  cheered.  He  fished  out 
a  revolver,  and  with  shot  and  whip  spurred  the  team 
to  top  speed.  "Now  drive,  you !  I'll  make  a  king  whip 
of  you!  Hooray!  Fast  time  on  the  Overland! 
Slade  knows  how  to  put  'em  through.  You  bet !" 

The  riot  behind  had  died  down.  Either  the  men 
atop  had  exhausted  their  ammunition  and  themselves, 
or  they  were  occupied  in  hanging  fast.  In  spite  of 
Terry's  best  efforts,  the  mules  ran  free;  all  he  might 
do  was  to  try  to  hold  their  heads  up  and  steady  their 
feet — perhaps  guide  them  a  little;  whenever  they 
slackened,  Slade  broke  them  to  a  run  again. 

"Ten  to  one  that  I  nick  the  off  leader's  ear,"  he 
shouted.  "Bang!"  spoke  his  revolver,  and  the  lead 
mules  plunged  as  if  stung. 

By  the  yellow  glare  of  the  coach  lamps  the  team's 
haunches  were  seen  to  be  covered  with  sweat;  flakes 
of  lather  spun  backward.  How  long  they  would  stand 
up  under  such  punishment  Terry  could  not  know.  He 
nerved  himself,  alert  for  any  accident.  Everything 
was  up  to  him  now :  to  keep  the  mules  in  their  course, 
to  save  the  coach  from  an  upset  (if  he  could),  to 


1 84          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

reach  the  next  station  with  his  father  and  mother,  and 
George,  and  the. woman  and  the  baby,  unharmed.  So 
he  drove  the  best  he  knew  how,  hauling  and  guiding 
and  peering  into  the  darkness,  for  the  road  before — 
and  a  little  prayer  welled  in  his  heart. 

The  team  were  tiring.  On  the  up-grades  they 
slackened  to  a  weary  trot;  Slade  swore  at  them — on 
the  down-grade  and  the  level  he  forced  them  to  a 
labored  gallop. 

After  a  long,  long  time  a  welcome  light  glimmered 
ahead.  The  station! 

"We'd  better  stop  at  the  station  for  a  change, 
hadn't  we,  Mr.  Slade?"  queried  Terry.  "Our  team's 
petered  out.  We  can't  make  time." 

And  that  was  true.  The  mules  were  all  in.  Even 
Slade  could  not  force  them  to  more  than  a  labored 
lope. 

"Kill  'em!  D'you  call  this  'driving'?  Whoopee! 
Now  send  'em  in!  Hooray!"  He  grabbed  a  coach 
lamp — flung  it  at  the  leaders,  and  it  burst  in  the  road 
like  a  shell.  Instantly  he  grabbed  the  other,  from  the 
opposite  side  beyond  Terry's  braced  legs,  and  flung  it 
also.  He  yelled  the  stage-driver's  yell.  The  mules 
veered  aside  into  the  brush — there  was  a  moment  of 
bucking  and  tilting  while  the  coach  hung  on  two 
wheels — Slade  shouted  gleefully  and  Terry,  taken  by 
surprise,  hauled  again  desperately,  and  urged  and 
soothed — the  team  straightened  out,  just  in  time, 
slanted  into  the  road  once  more,  and  at  the  station 
Terry  succeeded  in  pulling  them  down.  With  the  coach 


A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE     185 

running  up  on  the  wheel  pair's  heels,  they  stopped 
willingly  enough 

"What's  this?"  demanded  Slade. 

"Boner,  Mr.  Slade." 

"Who  told  you  to  make  a  stop  here?" 

But  Terry  tossed  the  lines  to  the  nearest  hostler, 
vaguely  seen  in  the  dimness;  another  hostler  was 
holding  the  spent  but  still  nervous  leaders  by  the  bits ; 
the  station-keeper  was  out. 

Slade  was  on  the  ground  quicker  than  Terry  him- 
self, and  had  jerked  open  the  coach  door. 

"Salt  Lake!"  he  announced  mockingly.  "End  of 
run.  Everybody  out." 

The  crew  atop  were  clumsily  swarming  down, 
amidst  laughter  and  jeers;  and  with  a  chorus  of 
Indian-like  whoops  and  a  final  spatter  of  revolver  shots 
they  all,  following  Slade,  disappeared,  pellmell.  They 
seemed  to  imagine  that  they  had  played  a  great  joke. 

"Who  was  that?    Slade?" 

"Yes.     Slade's  gang!" 

"By  jiminy,  they  nigh  killed  these  mules. " 

"He  didn't  have  the  ribbons,  though.  Who  was 
handling  the  ribbons?  Who  straightened  the  team 
out,  in  the  brush  yonder,  after  the  lamps  busted?" 

"Guess  I  was  holding  the  lines,"  confessed  Terry, 
to  the  queries. 

"Where  you  from?" 

"Beaver  Creek,  Denver  Division." 

"Where'd  Slade  get  on?  Where's  the  regular 
driver?  Did  you  drive  all  the  way  from  Laporte?" 

"No,  I  didn't.     Slade  made  me  take  the  lines,  a 


i86          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

piece  back.  But  there  wasn't  much  driving.  He  had 
whip  and  brake." 

"Terry!"  It  was  his  mother's  frantic  voice.  "Are 
you  there  ?  Are  you  safe  ?" 

"I'm  all  right,  ma.     It's  all  over.     They've  gone." 

"Yes;  they  won't  be  back,"  assured  the  station- 
keeper.  "Anybody  hurt?  When  Slade  gets  to  sky- 
larking there's  no  telling  what'll  happen." 

"Nobody  hurt,"  answered  Terry's  father.  "We're 
pretty  badly  shaken — but  nothing  serious." 

"You  can  thank  this  boy  that  you  didn't  turn  over, 
the  last  minute.  What  else  you  can  thank  him  for  I 
don't  know,  but  I'd  sure  hate  to  ride  on  the  box  with 
Jack  Slade  when  he's  liquored  up,"  replied  the  station- 
keeper.  "He's  liable  to  do  anything." 

"Did  your  hair  stand  stiff,  Terry?"  asked  George. 
"Gee,  but  that  was  a  ride!" 

"I  didn't  think  about  my  hair.  I  was  thinking 
mostly  about  you  folks." 

The  drooping  team  had  been  led  to  the  stables;  the 
fresh  team  was  coming. 

"How  about  driving  on,  now  ?"  inquired  the  station- 
keeper.  "I'm  short-handed  here.  Wife's  sick,  an'  one 
hostler's  been  kicked  in  the  leg  an'  t'other  one's  new  to 
stagin',  so  I  can't  take  you  on  myself.  You'll  find 
a  driver  up  at  Cherokee;  or  you  can  wait  for  the 
down  stage.  There  might  be  an  extra  aboard  her." 

"Oh,  I'll  drive,"  spoke  Terry.  "How  far  to 
Cherokee?" 

"Only  twelve  miles.  You'll  get  there  for  break- 
fast." 


A  WILD  NIGHT  RIDE  WITH  SLADE       187 

"But,  Terry !  Aren't  you  tired  ?  Can  you  drive  at 
night?"  exclaimed  his  mother. 

"Of  course,  Ma.     That's  no  trick." 

"He's  just  been  a-drivin',  ma'am,  ain't  he?"  de- 
manded the  station-keeper.  "From  what  I  see,  I'd  as 
soon  trust  to  him  as  to  a  green  hostler — and  many  a 
stage  has  had  to  go  on  with  a  green  hostler,  in  a 
pinch." 

"I'd  feel  safer  with  him,  myself,"  put  in  the  woman 
with  the  baby. 

"Are  you  up  to  it,  Terry,  boy?"  asked  his  father. 
"If  you  are,  go  ahead.  I'll  sit  on  the  box  with  you." 

"No,  sir!  You  stay  with  ma.  George  and  I 
planned  to  ride  outside  anyway.  I'd  as  soon  drive  as 
sit,  and  he  can  spell  me  if  I  get  too  sleepy." 

"Those  hosses'd  trail  to  Cherokee  of  themselves," 
scoffed  the  station-keeper.  "Yes,  and  turn  out  for 
the  down-stage.  Jest  a  jiffy  now,  till  I  stick  in  lamps. 
One's  not  much  good,  but  I  guess  you  can  see." 

"All  'board,  folks."  And  Terry  climbed  to  the  box 
again.  George  settled  beside  him. 

At  the  slam  of  the  coach  door  and  the  call,  "Right, 
here,"  the  four  horses  strained,  Terry  let  them  go, 
and  under  him  the  coach,  with  its  precious  load,  rolled 
forward  on  the  last  lap  of  the  night  run  to  Cherokee. 
He  remained  so  wide  awake,  after  the  excitement  of 
the  trip  from  Boner,  that  George  did  not  get  a  chance 
at  the  lines.  Driving  carefully  but  steadily,  he  passed 
the  down-stage  about  an  hour  out;  its  twin  lamps 
flared  upon  him  for  a  moment,  and  were  gone;  pres- 
ently George  quit  talking  and  snored;  as  like  as  not 


1 88          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

the  inside  passengers  were  sleeping,  too;  so  he  was 
alone,  with  the  coach,  in  the  night. 

It  was  fun,  but  it  was  hard  work,  also.  He  made 
Cherokee  at  dawn;  and  after  breakfast  he  was  glad 
enough  to  surrender  the  lines  to  a  driver  who  was 
there,  and  snooze,  wedged  atop,  most  of  the  way  to 
the  dinner  station  of  Virginia  Dale. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


TROUBLE   ON    BRIDGETS   PASS 


"WHEN  do  we  cross  the  mountains,  anyhow?" 
asked  George  for  the  third  or  fourth  time. 

At  Virginia  Dale  station  they  had  been  transferred 
to  another  fourteen-passenger  coach,  and  had  left  the 
smaller  coach  to  be  overhauled  in  the  blacksmith  shop. 
The  Concord  coaches  were  supposed  to  stand  almost 
any  amount  of  hard  usage,  'but  the  rough  trip  when 
Slade  was  on  the  box  had  proved  too  much  for  this 
old  veteran. 

The  driver  out  of  Virginia  Dale  eyed  the  big  coach 
dubiously. 

"She's  all  right  for  me,"  he  remarked.  "The  only 
question  is,  how  the  man  on  the  Bridger  Pass  run  will 
get  her  through  the  opening.  She  overhangs  by  six 
inches." 

"What  will  he  do  then?"  queried  Terry's  mother. 
"Is  the  pass  so  narrow  as  that?" 

"It's  as  wide  as  it  can  be  made,  ma'am.  Nature 
did  it.  Mebbe  you'll  all  squeeze  through,  with  a  little 
scraping;  or  mebbe  there'll  be  a  coach  at  t'other  end, 
waiting,  and  you  can  walk  through.  Emigrants  are 
told  to  be  ready  to  take  their  wagons  apart,  when 

189 


190          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

wider'n  the  law  allows,  and  up-end  'em.  So  don't 
worry. " 

Bridgets  Pass,  by  which  the  Rocky  Mountains 
were  crossed,  was  over  200  miles  from  Virginia  Dale. 
The  scenery  grew  wilder — real  mountain  scenery, 
with  swift,  cold  trout  streams,  sage  and  pines,  snow 
blotches  near  at  hand  on  bare  slopes,  and  elk  and 
deer,  rabbits,  grouse,  now  and  then  a  wolf,  and 
once  a  huge  bear  sitting  up  like  a  dog  to  watch  the 
stage. 

The  roomy  coach  had  one  advantage:  it  supplied 
everybody  with  an  outside  seat.  The  woman  and  her 
baby  stayed  inside,  but  Father  and  Mother  Richards 
mounted  atop,  to  the  seat  behind  the  box. 

Now  it  was  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  out  of 
Virginia  Dale,  and  George,  who  seemed  to  have 
Bridger's  Pass  on  the  brain,  was  eagerly  looking 
ahead  for  it. 

"When  do  we  cross  the  mountains,  anyhow?"  he 
demanded. 

Driver  Big  Dick,  who  had  taken  the  lines  at  the 
last  home  station,  laughed. 

"Oh,  pshaw!  What's  troubling  you?  First  thing 
you  know  we'll  be  across." 

"But  we  have  to  go  through  the  pass,  don't  we?" 
Terry's  mother  asked. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Through  it  or  over  it,  just  as  you 
say.  There  'tis." 

Behind  four  horses,  they  were  slowly  climbing  a 
long  stretch  of  bare  rolling  country,  covered  only  with 
low  sage.  They  were  high,  for  the  air  wafted  chill, 


TROUBLE  ON  BRIDGER'S  PASS       191 

as  if  from  snow-banks — and,  indeed,  snow-banks 
curiously  lay  on  either  side. 

No  cliffs  or  sharp  peaks  appeared  anywhere  near; 
the  rolling  country  extended  before,  and  all  around 
their  route.  It  was  magnificent — this  great  expanse; 
and  the  big  coach  felt  very  small  to  the  pas- 
sengers. 

"But  I  don't  see  any  pass,"  blurted  George. 

"And  you  aren't  likely  to,"  asserted  Driver  Dick. 
"There's  a  squall  waiting  yonder." 

The  rolling  country  gradually  uprose  into  a  smooth 
ridge,  along  which  the  stage  road  ahead  appeared  to 
wind.  The  road  there  merged  into  a  cloud  cap,  swirl- 
ing and  hanging,  with  fringed  edges. 

"Snow,  eh?"  spoke  Terry's  father. 

"Nothing  else,  up  here.  Snows  or  hails  the  year 
'round." 

"How  high  are  we?" 

"Only  eight  thousand  feet — but  see  those  hosses 
puff?  The  pass  is  over  9,000.  It's  a  stiffer  climb  than 
you'd  think.  Fact  is,  gener'ly  we  have  six  hosses, 
when  the  Injuns  leave  us  enough  stock.  Four  hosses 
and  a  heavy  coach  like  this  aren't  right.  No,  sir. 
You  passengers  don't  weigh  so  awful  much,  but  I  got 
near  a  ton  of  mail  besides." 

The  horses,  not  of  the  strongest,  were  having  a 
rather  tough  time;  Dick  set  the  brake,  to  pause,  and 
breathe  them.  The  afternoon  had  rapidly  waned  to 
early  dusk,  for  the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  storm 
cloud.  The  cloud  had  spread,  the  breeze  blew  cold 
and  raw. 


192          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"We'd  better  go  inside,  hadn't  we?"  proposed 
Terry's  mother. 

"Yes,  I  think  we  had.    Coming,  boys?" 

"We'll  stay.    We  want  to  see  the  pass." 

"Put  on  your  buffalo  coats,  then." 

"They'll  need  'em,"  grunted  Driver  Dick.  "It's 
nine  months  winter,  up  here,  and  three  months'  late  in 
the  fall.  I  froze  my  fingers  on  the  Fourth  o'  July." 

Father  and  Mother  Richards  joined  the  woman  with 
the  baby,  inside.  Terry  and  George  and  Driver  Dick 
donned  their  overcoats.  The  stage  started  on. 

The  breeze  blew  harder  and  harder,  colder  and 
colder.  Up  and  up  toiled  the  four  horses,  dragging 
the  coach,  and  slowly  topping  the  ridge.  The  road 
did  not  look  steep;  it  was  one  of  those  long  grinds, 
with  no  let-down — the  worst  kind. 

The  wind  fairly  howled.  There  was  nothing  to 
break  its  force.  It  made  the  coach  stagger,  and 
seemed  wellnigh  to  blow  the  horses  off  their  feet.  The 
lines  hummed.  With  watering  eyes  the  boys  squinted 
ahead.  The  whole  ridge  was  veiled  in  white — and  on 
a  sudden  the  scurrying  flakes  struck  them,  full  tilt. 

In  a  moment  the  air  was  thick  with  a  regular  bliz- 
zard. The  horses  became  white,  the  coach  and  every- 
thing on  it  whitened,  the  ground  was  white,  the  road 
was  covered,  the  high  country  was  curtained  off. 

"Shucks!"  George  complained.  "How'll  we  see  to 
get  through  the  pass?  We  may  stick  fast." 

Big  Dick  grimly  drove. 

"That  joke's  too  old  for  such  weather.  Jim  Bridger 
invented  it  ten  years  ago.  Whether  we'll  stick  I 


TROUBLE  ON  BRIDGER'S  PASS       193 

dunno — but  you're  on  the  pass  now.  All  this  open 
ridge  is  the  pass.  Most  tender  feet  are  led  to  expect  a 
gorge  just  wide  enough  for  a  wagon;  but  you  could 
drive  all  the  coaches  on  the  line  across  it,  abreast.  It's 
nothing  but  a  smooth  dip — a  sort  of  saddle  in  the  back- 
bone of  this  here  continent/' 

"Aw !"  stammered  George,  only  half  believing. 

"Injuns  or  no  Injuns,  storm  or  shine,  never  again 
will  I  make  this  drive  with  a  double-decker  coach  and 
only  four  hosses,"  grumbled  Big  Dick.  "Not  for  no 
reason  what-some-ever.  Ben  Holladay  can  kill  his 
stock  himself.  I'll  not  do  it." 

And,  buffeted  by  the  fierce  storm,  it  did  indeed  seem 
nip  and  tuck  for  coach  and  horses.  Presently  Dick 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Over  the  wust,  I  reckon,  and  on  the  level." 

"How  do  you  know?"  For  dusk  had  settled  down 
and  the  snow  was  still  blinding. 

"I  can  tell  by  the  feel.  We're  running  easier.  The 
station's  not  far  ahead  now.  Pretty  soon  we'll  be 
across,  where  the  streams  flow  west.  Like  as  not 
we'll  get  into  better  weather  too."  And — "We're  get- 
ting into  it  already,"  he  added,  in  a  minute.  "We're 
through  it.  I  often  find  the  sky  clear  up  here,  while 
there's  a  storm  below." 

The  storm  was  thinning.  They  had  been  a  long 
time  climbing  the  pass,  for  the  day  was  gone,  as  if 
swept  away  by  the  wind.  Stars  began  to  twinkle 
overhead,  and  the  wind  died  to  a  flicker. 

Big  Dick  abruptly  pointed  before  with  his  whip. 

"By  the  jumping  jiminy!"  he  exclaimed,  not  loud, 


194          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

but  tense.  "The  station's  been  fired.  That  means 
Injuns.  Now  what  to  do!" 

Half  a  mile  before  there  was  an  unsteady  spot  of 
yellowish  red  gleaming  low  amidst  the  white  expanse. 

Terry  felt  his  heart  skip  a  beat,  and  heard  George 
catch  breath.  They  all  sat  for  a  moment  silent  and 
staring,  while  Dick  checked  the  hopeful  team  to  a 
slow  walk. 

"Must  have  jumped  it  during  the  storm.  Hasn't 
been  snowing  so  hard  up  here,  though,"  murmured 
Dick.  "Huh !  Sioux,  o'  course,  lifting  hair  and  stock. 
Now  what  to  do?  Hosses  tuckered,  two  boys,  two 
men,  two  women  and  baby — I  certainly'd  hate  to  beat 
back  through  that  storm  below  again,  and  miss  the 
road.  Nope;  our  best  holt  is  to  keep  a-going.  Sta- 
tion's probably  been  burning  an  hour  or  so,  and  that 
means  the  redskins  have  skedaddled  with  their  plunder. 
If  they  sight  us  we'll  make  a  run  for  it  to  Sulphur, 
and  fight  'em  off  on  the  way.  There's  light  enough 
for  shooting.  Let's  stop  a  minute." 

He  halted  the  team  and  stiffly  swung  off. 

"Say,  Mister,  step  out,  if  you  please,"  he  called,  at 
the  coach  door.  "Want  to  show  you  something." 

The  door  of  the  closely  curtained  coach  opened,  and 
Terry's  father  issued.  Big  Dick  drew  him  aside  a 
few  paces. 

"See  yonder?" 

Father  Richards  looked. 

"Aha!  What's  that?  The  station?"  He  acted 
cool ;  he  was  a  soldier. 

"Where  the  station  used  to  be." 


TROUBLE  ON  BRIDGER'S  PASS       195 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 
"Going  to  drive  on.  Pine  Grove  is  nine  miles  be- 
hind, in  the  storm ;  Sulphur  Springs  is  ten  miles  ahead, 
in  the  clear.  You've  got  a  rifle  and  one  boy  has  a 
pistol.  I've  got  a  rifle  and  six-shooter.  There  are 
three  of  us  to  use  'em,  and  me  to  do  the  driving,  and 
two  women  to  protect.  It'll  be  mostly  down  hill. 
Two  of  you  stretch  out  among  the  baggage  atop,  leave 
me  one  boy  on  the  box,  and  we'll  lick  all  the  red  var- 
mints in  creation.  But  we  may  not  see  a  single  pelt. 
'Tisn't  Injun  weather,  this  time  o'  night." 

"You're  the  captain,"  agreed  Terry's  father. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Ralph?"  asked  Terry's  mother, 
as  he  reached  inside  the  coach  for  his  rifle. 

"Nothing  serious."  There  was  little  to  be  gained 
by  alarming  her  or  the  other  woman.  "But  we're  at 
a  place  where  the  Indians  have  been  raiding;  so  I 
think  I'll  ride  on  top  with  the  boys." 

"Which  of  you  fellows  is  the  best  shot  with  a 
Colt's  ?"  demanded  Driver  Dick,  of  the  two  on  the  box. 

"I  don't  know,"  Terry  answered.  "I'm  pretty  good. 
Wild  Bill  Hickok  taught  me.  George  can  beat  me 
with  a  rifle." 

"You  stay  on  the  box  with  me  then.  Can  you 
shoot  with  either  hand?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  take  both  guns,  then.  The  two  with  the  rifles 
will  work  fine  on  top,  behind.  All  'board.  Every 
minute  counts." 

Everybody  quickly  settled.  Terry's  father  and 
George  squatted  amidst  the  baggage,  on  the  top,  fac- 


196          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

ing  right  and  left,  the  rifles  ready.  With  six-shooter 
in  either  hand,  Terry  braced  himself  on  the  box. 
Driver  Dick  grasped  whip  and  lines,  chirped  at  the 
shivering  horses,  and  the  coach  creaked  forward. 

"Just  keep  your  eyes  peeled  for  anything  moving, 
ahead,"  bade  Dick  to  Terry.  "You  fellows  behind 
watch  the  sides  and  rear.  I'll  tend  to  the  hosses. 
Don't  scare.  Injuns  are  mighty  leery  of  loaded  guns, 
but  they're  lightning  when  they  think  you're  scared." 

He  drove  on.  Six  feet  three  inches,  and  built  ac- 
cordingly, was  "Big  Dick,"  and  a  king  whip  who 
didn't  know  fear  except  for  others.  He  had  staged 
through  the  mountains  for  years. 

The  moon  had  not  risen,  but  the  star-shine  on  the 
snow  was  bright.  They  drew  nearer  to  the  ruined 
stage  station  of  Bridger's  Pass.  The  fire  had  died 
down  considerably,  and  was  licking  among  the  coals 
and  charred  logs.  Not  a  sign  of  life  appeared.  Dick 
relaxed  a  little. 

"Nothing  there,"  he  said.  "Let's  stop  a  minute  and 
scout  about." 

He  braked  the  horses;  they  pricked  their  ears 
uneasily,  as  if  wondering  what  was  the  matter.  He 
passed  the  lines  to  Terry  and  boldly  swung  down.  He 
could  be  seen,  black  against  the  snow  and  the  flames, 
stamping  around,  exploring  the  premises;  he  made  a 
circuit,  examined  the  ground,  and  trudged  back  to  the 
coach. 

Terry  was  glad  to  have  him  return.  There  was 
something  awesome  in  this  place — the  mysteriously 
burning  station,  the  silence,  and  the  lonesomeness — 


TROUBLE  ON  BRIDGER'S  PASS       197 

the  token  of  tragedy  away  up  here  on  the  crest  of  the 
Continental  Divide. 

"Nothing  dead  but  a  brindled  dog,"  reported  Dick, 
climbing  aboard.  "He  had  some  arrows  in  him ;  then 
the  varmints  stuck  a  pitchfork  through  him  and  pinned 
him  so  his  head  burned  off.  I  remember  that  dog 
well.  The  station-keeper  thought  a  heap  of  him.  An 
awful  good  dog,  poor  old  Towser!  I  have  a  notion 
he  gave  the  alarm  and  the  station  hands  broke  away; 
don't  see  any  trace  of  'em  in  the  fire.  The  Injun 
tracks  lead  off  west'rd,  as  if  they  might  be  going  down 
to  Sulphur  themselves.  All  we  can  do  is  to  follow." 

The  horses  hated  to  move  on.  They  knew  that 
this  was  their  station,  and  that  they  had  earned  food 
and  rest.  But  Dick  launched  his  lash  above  them, 
ordered  briskly,  and  they  sluggishly  toiled  ahead, 
across  the  wide  open  country  lying  abandoned  to  the 
starlight. 

There  were  still  some  short  grades — sort  of  billows ; 
the  team  groaned  as  they  tugged  the  coach;  the  snow 
had  crusted,  but  was  getting  mushy  underneath.  Dick 
tried  to  quicken  pace  at  the  top  of  each  grade,  so  as  to 
gain  a  view  before  in  short  time. 

"Fresh  pony  tracks,  gentlemen,"  he  informed. 
"See  them,  in  the  road?"  He  stopped  and  sprang 
down  again  to  examine.  "Old  enough  to  have  frozen, 
though,"  he  announced,  as  he  took  his  seat.  "The 
Injuns  may  have  kept  on  to  Sulphur.  If  they  fail  at 
Sulphur,  they  may  scout  back  along  the  road,  to  lay 
for  this  stage ;  or  they  may  hit  the  road  t'other  side  of 
Sulphur,  for  the  up-stage ;  or  they  may  be  getting  out 


198          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

of  the  country.  If  they  lay  for  this  stage,  they'll  likely 
be  in  a  canyon  ahead;  so  be  ready  with  your  guns, 
for  I'm  going  through  that  canyon  as  fast  as  the 
whip  will  send  us." 

The  coach  was  descending  from  the  great  pass. 
The  first  glow  of  the  rising  moon  was  visible,  above 
the  hills,  as  the  road  wound  among  the  long  slopes. 
Dick  settled  himself  more  securely,  pulled  down  his  hat, 
shook  out  his  whip,  and  slightly  tautened  the  lines. 

"Hang  tight  with  your  feet  and  pump  the  lead,  and 
don't  mind  the  yelling,"  he  said.  "Nothing'll  stop  us 
while  the  hosses  hold  out." 

His  lash  shot  forward  and  cracked  like  a  pistol. 

"Git,  you!"  he  barked.     "Git!" 

The  horses,  their  ears  sullenly  flat,  quickened  from 
trot  into  dogged  lope,  Dick  gently  braked  through  a 
narrowing,  curving  swale;  suddenly  he  released  the 
brake,  cracked  his  lash,  yelped  vigorously,  and,  round- 
ing a  shoulder  of  the  hillside,  the  coach  entered  a 
downward-leading  canyon,  rocky  underfoot,  bouldered 
on  the  steep  flanks,  and  as  crooked  as  a  ram's  horn. 

The  coach  jounced  and  bounded  as  the  wheels  struck 
ruts  and  stones.  Now  and  then  it  slewed  dangerously, 
for  there  had  been  sleet  here.  A  horse  stumbled,  almost 
fell,  but  recovered.  The  turns  were  very  sharp,  be- 
tween the  canyon  walls  and  a  deeply  cut  gulch  at  the 
bottom  of  which  a  stream  dashed  madly.  The  horses' 
ears  were  erect,  as  they  tried  to  keep  their  footing; 
the  coach  thundered  at  their  heels,  and  Dick  drove 
freely,  sawing  with  the  lines,  touching  up  with  the 
lash,  steadying  with  the  brake,  but  not  slackening. 


TROUBLE  ON  BRIDGER'S  PASS       199 

Would  the  canyon  never  end?  The  moon  was  in 
the  sky,  the  coach  made  a  tremendous  noise — and  this 
was  nervous  work,  to  sit  rocked  and  pitched  but  all 
eyes  and  ears,  while  the  coach  twisted  and  turned 
through  shine  and  shadow,  and  every  curve  might  open 
into  an  ambush. 

"Almost  through,"  rapped  Dick.  "They'll  be  at 
other  end  now,  if  anywhere." 

The  pace  increased.  The  horses  slipped  repeatedly 
on  the  icy  turns.  But  glimpses  were  to  be  had  of  open 
country  before.  The  lower  end  of  the  canyon  must 
be  near.  Dick  was  about  to  rush  it — on  they  boomed 
and  rattled.  Terry  held  his  breath,  ready,  his  two 
Colts  cocked  and  poised — they  rounded  what  was  the 
last  turn,  the  canyon  widened  to  gentler  slopes.  Dick 
had  uttered  half  a  jubilant  cheer,  when  with  a 
"Whoof!"  a  bulky  shape  sprang  across  the  trail,  at 
the  smell  and  sight  of  bear  the  team  whirled  on  a 
pivot,  the  coach  spun,  struck  a  boulder,  and  was  over 
in  a  flash. 

Terry  had  fleeting  vision  of  the  horses  rearing  and 
plunging  in  a  heap,  as  they  lost  their  footing  on  the 
ice  under  the  snow,  and  he  flew  through  the  air,  dis- 
charging both  revolvers  when  he  landed,  shoulders 
first. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ALONE  ON   THE  DANGER   TRAIL 

HE  picked  himself  up  while  everything  was  still 
whirling  around.  His  eyes  cleared,  he  got  his  bear- 
ings. He  had  landed  below  the  coach,  which  was 
lying  on  its  side  upon  the  snowy  slope  between  him 
and  the  road.  Big  Dick  had  hung  to  the  lines,  and 
was  already  wrestling  with  the  horses,  mixed  together 
and  plunging.  The  top  load,  passengers  and  baggage, 
had  been  thrown  wide.  His  father  was  staggering 
erect,  George  was  sitting  crooked,  as  if  dazed.  From 
inside  the  coach  the  baby  was  crying. 

Terry  ran  to  the  rescue.  He  and  his  father  arrived 
together.  The  first  thing  they  did  was  to  jerk  open 
the  coach  door  on  the  upper  side. 

"Anybody  hurt?     Answer,  quick!" 

"I  hope  not.  I — don't — think — so.  No,  I'm  not." 
That  was  his  mother's  voice  replying,  confused.  "Are 
you,  Mrs.  Davis?  Or  the  baby?" 

"We're  all  right." 

"Can  you  get  out  alone?  Do  you  need  help?" 
Terry's  father  queried.  "Take  my  hand." 

From  the  jumbled  interior  Mother  Richards  ap- 
peared, and  was  lifted  out.  The  other  woman  held 

200 


ALONE  ON  THE  DANGER  TRAIL      201 

up  the  baby;  she  followed.  They  were  bruised  and 
shaken,  but  had  had  a  marvelous  escape  from  any 
serious  hurt. 

"Are  you  safe,  Terry?    Where's  George?" 

"I'm  here,"  announced  George. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Feels  like  my  leg's  busted.     I  can't  get  up." 

"Oh,  the  dickens!"  deplored  Terry.  He  and  his 
father  went  to  George.  "Pain  much?" 

"Does  when  I  move  it  any.     Ouch!" 

"Let's  see." 

"Right  there!"  gasped  George.  He  turned  a  little 
white.  He  had  lost  his  hat.  The  perspiration  stood 
out  on  his  brow. 

"Between  knee  and  ankle,  eh?"  mused  Terry's 
father.  "Not  a  bad  break.  The  question  is,  how  to 
move  you.  Here's  a  broken  leg,  driver,"  he  called. 

"And  one  hoss  with  a  broken  neck  here,  and  the 
harness  I  dunno  what,  yet,"  panted  Big  Dick.  "Wait 
till  I  cut  this  dead  hoss  free.  Whoa,  now!  Whoa, 
boys !"  He  worked  rapidly.  Terry  hastened  to  assist. 
They  straightened  out  the  team,  which  presently  stood 
more  quietly.  "All  right-o,"  Big  Dick  pronounced. 
"That'll  do.  Fetch  a  buffalo  robe.  We'll  have  to 
change  that  lad  to  safer  quarters,  alongside  the  coach." 

George  uttered  not  a  sound,  but  he  fainted  before 
they  finally  laid  him  on  the  Buffalo  robe  and  under  a 
blanket,  close  beside  the  overturned  coach.  Big  Dick 
was  all  business. 

"Now  one  of  us  has  got  to  straddle  a  hoss  and  go 
down  to  Sulphur  for  help.  There's  one  hoss  that  can 


202          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

be  ridden ;  Mothers  never  have  been  backed ;  and,  any- 
how, the  women  can  be  protected  better  right  here, 
with  the  coach  for  cover,  than  strung  out  along  the 
road ;  if  the  Injuns  corral  us  we  can  fight  'em  off  from 
the  coach,  but  loose  on  the  road  is  a  different  proposi- 
tion. I  stay  here.  I  know  Injuns,  and  have  been  in 
fracases  before.  Mister  Soldier  Man  has  smelled 
powder,  and  his  place  is  here  too.  I  reckon  the  boy 
with  the  busted  leg*  can  handle  a  gun.  So  it's  up  to 
this  other  boy.  He  can  get  through  as  well  as  any- 
body, and  he'll  do  it." 

"Oh,  Terry !"  Mother  Richards  gasped. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  responded  Big  Dick.  "I  know  how 
you  feel.  But  we  can't  right  the  coach,  we  needn't  sit 
all  night  waiting  for  something  to  happen,  and  that 
courier  job  has  got  to  be  performed  by  somebody.  He 
can  ride  and  he  can  shoot  and  he's  heap  man  for  his 
size.  Sulphur's  only  five  miles,  through  open  country ; 
he  can  see  Injuns  as  quick  as  they  see  him;  and  if  he 
can't  get  through  he  can  come  back.  That  stage  hoss 
is  fast — will  run  like  a  scared  cat  when  Injuns  are 
after  him." 

"Well,  Terry,"  spoke  Father  Richards.  "Will  you 
go?" 

"Sure  thing,  Dad."  And  Terry  tried  to  still  his 
beating  heart.  "Ready  now.  Where's  the  horse, 
Dick?  Which  one?" 

"I  hate  to  have  you,  Terry,"  his  mother  faltered. 

"He's  a  man.  It's  part  of  a  man's  work,"  firmly 
spoke  his  father.  "And  we  can  depend  on  him,  too," 
he  added. 


ALONE  ON  THE  DANGER  TRAIL      203 

"You  bet  your  life,"  agreed  Big  Dick.  "Come 
along,"  he  bade,  to  Terry.  "Keep  one  of  those  Colts, 
and  ammunition  for  it.  I'll  put  you  aboard  the 
hoss.  It's  that  blaze-face  roan.  He's  the  best 
hoss  of  the  bunch.  Wait  till  I  cut  down  this  har- 
ness." 

"Wish  I  could  go,"  uttered  George,  who  had  waked 

up  and  heard.  "If  it  wasn't  for  my  busted  leg 

Ouch !  You  take  my  pistol,  if  you  want  to.  She's  a 
humdinger  when  she  doesn't  miss  fire." 

"You  keep  it.  May  have  to  use  it  yourself,  and 
she  knows  you,"  Dick  answered.  "This  here  navy  o' 
mine  will  fix  him  out."  He  led  Terry,  astride  the 
bareback  horse,  into  the  road. 

"You  can't  lose  yourself,  if  you  watch  the  ruts 
where  the  snow's  thin.  Keep  your  eye  on  these  Injun 
pony  tracks,  too;  as  long  as  they're  ahead  of  you 
you're  all  right.  If  they  branch  off  you'll  have  to  be  a 
bit  more  keerful.  You'll  see  the  lights  of  Sulphur 
in  about  two  miles.  Then  if  everything  there  looks 
O.  K.  and  peaceful  it's  pretty  good  sign  the  Injuns 
have  gone  'round.  There's  a  bluff  in  rear  of  station ; 
the  Injuns'll  be  on  it,  if  anywhere.  If  the  ground 
looks  clear  and  no  sign  of  a  siege,  then  when  you're  in 
pistol  sound  give  three  shots  as  signal.  The  station 
men'll  answer,  and  if  they  signal  you  in,  you  go 
straight  and  go  fast.  They'll  be  expecting  the  stage. 
Ask  'em  to  send  men  and  animals  enough  to  get  us 
out  o'  here.  But  if  you  can't  make  the  station,  turn 
'round  and  back-track  pronto,  and  we'll  manage  some 
other  way." 


204          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Don't  take  unnecessary  risks,  Terry,"  begged  his 
mother. 

"No'm.  I'm  not  afraid,  Ma.  I'll  out-run  the 
Injuns.  This  horse  can  beat  theirs  and  this  gun  can 
beat  their  bows  and  arrows.  Good-bye,  folks.  See 
you  later.  G'wan,  Blazer !" 

He  forced  Blazer  into  an  unwilling  trot,  and  away 
he  went,  revolver  in  his  right  hand,  check-rein  in  his 
left,  and  Blazer's  backbone  trying  to  split  him  apart. 

The  waning  moon  shone,  the  snow  was  not  deep  but 
very  white,  and  the  country  lay  well  exposed,  and  as 
dead  as  in  winter.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  any  move- 
ment, except  those  pony  tracks.  But  the  pony  tracks 
were  enough  to  keep  him  alert. 

He  trotted  on  and  on,  getting  farther  and  farther 
from  his  base,  the  party  at  the  coach,  and  farther  and 
farther  into  the  lonely  distance  where,  danger  lurked. 
Over  and  over  again  he  figured  upon  what  he  would 
do  if  the  Indians  jumped  him;  but  much  depended 
upon  how  they  jumped  him — and,  of  course,  that  was 
one  thing  hard  to  figure.  He  must  hold  himself  ready 
to  act  in  a  jiffy — to  dash  forward,  or  to  dash  back — 
but  he'd  a  heap  rather  dash  forward,  and  lead  the 
Indians  away  from  the  coach — only,  if  Sulphur  had 
been  destroyed,  where  would  he  land?  Whew! 

The  pony  tracks  continued.  He  grew  tenser  and 
tenser,  watching  them,  and  the  country  ahead  and  on 
either  side.  It  seemed  to  be  a  mighty  long  five  miles. 
The  road  wound  among  gentle  rises;  from  the  open- 
ings he  peered  eagerly  for  the  lights  of  the  station. 

At  last,  there  they  were,  or  one,  that  is — a  twinkle 


ALONE  ON  THE  DANGER  TRAIL      205 

amidst  the  wide  expanse.  But  even  while  he  gazed 
the  twinkle  quit — went  out.  What  did  that  mean? 
Indians?  Lights  were  always  extinguished  when 
Indians  were  about.  The  tracks  led  on. 

Listening  for  shot  and  shout,  and  nervously  lean- 
ing forward,  with  a  great  wish  that  he  was  somewhere 
else,  but  afraid  only  that  he  might  make  a  mistake,  he 
kept  going. 

Of  a  sudden  he  missed  the  pony  tracks.  They  had 
turned  off.  Now  he  had  no  guide  at  all — yes,  he  had, 
for  he  could  see  the  station,  like  a  black  spot,  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  ahead. 

Where  were  the  Indians?  He  was  at  sea  as  to  that. 
They  might  be  at  the  station — they  might  be  out  of 
sight,  closing  in  on  it  and  on  him — the  country  dipped, 
and  there  were  bluffs,  where  they  could  hide ;  or  they 
might  be  waiting  to  cut  him  off. 

Terry  swallowed  his  beating  heart,  took  the  bit  in 
his  teeth,  so  to  speak,  gripped  his  gun  tighter,  settled 
upon  Blazer,  and  rode  right  forward.  He  was  going 
to  find  out  something,  and  that  very  soon.  But  it  was 
a  long  way  back  to  the  coach  folks. 

The  silence  seemed  heavy  and  warning.  He  hated 
to  fire  the  three  shots.  However,  he  ought  to  obey 
orders,  and  Big  Dick  knew  what  was  the  best  thing 
to  do.  The  station  loomed  larger  and  darker  and 
more  mysterious.  Hah!  Here  were  other  hoof- 
prints,  entering  the  road,  from  one  side.  The  dirt  had 
been  dug  up  and  thrown,  as  if  the  horses  had  been 
at  full  speed. 

That  looked  bad — it  looked  like  a  chase.    He  caught 


206          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

himself  shivering  with  excitement  and  caution.  He 
was  of  two  minds :  one,  to  break  wildly  forward  and 
finish  the  business;  the  other,  to  hold  Blazer  in  and 
gaze.  That  was  the  question — whether  to  meet  any 
danger  or  to  let  the  danger  come  to  him. 

The  folks  at  the  coach  were  depending  on  Terry 
Richards,  and  Terry  Richards  resolved  that  he'd  do 
his  best.  He  slackened,  just  a  trifle,  and  fired  three 
shots — Bang!  Bang!  And  bang! 

How  Blazer  jumped,  and  how  the  shots  echoed, 
alarming  the  whole  country !  Now  the  Indians  would 
know,  if  they  had  not  known  before.  He  halted  and 
reloaded,  while  listening  hard,  and  staring  right,  left, 
behind,  every  which-way.  Yes,  he  was  plumb  scared, 
and  trembling  all  through. 

He  waited,  breathing  fast,  figuring  upon  what  to  do 
next;  for  the  station  did  not  answer.  It  lay  silent. 
The  bluff  behind  it  was  silent.  He  could  not  make 
out  movements,  anywhere ;  and  he  could  not  make  out 
whether  the  station  had  been  abandoned. 

Should  he  risk  riding  on?  Or  should  he  quit  and 
ride  back  to  the  coach,  bearing  the  word  that  he  had 
found  nobody?  No,  he  could  not  do  that.  And  he 
ought  not  to  waste  time  sitting  here.  If  the  station 
was  deserted,  and  no  Indians  headed  him  off,  he  must 
ride  on  to  the  next  station,  and  keep  going.  That  was 
the  motto  of  the  Overland  Stage  Line — "Keep 
Going." 

Terry  drew  long  breath,  tightened  rein,  pressed  his 
heels  into  Blazer's  ribs,  and  rode  on,  as  boldly  as 
though  he  had  a  regiment  behind  him.  This  was  a 


ALONE  ON  THE  DANGER  TRAIL      207 

brave  act.  To  face  the  unknown  danger  is  a  real  test 
of  nerve. 

He  had  advanced  about  half  way,  without  slacken- 
ing (if  Indians  were  watching,  they  would  not  quite 
know  what  he  was  up  to,  coming  on  so  confidently), 
when,  hurrah!  A  light  gleamed  in  the  station;  the 
door  opened,  and,  as  he  dashed  down  at  full  speed, 
several  figures  stood  out  to  receive  him. 

He  had  done  it — he  was  safe ! 

"Hello !" 

"Hello,  yourself!" 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  shoot?" 

"Kinder  thought  we  did ;  so  we  thought  we'd  take  a 
look.  What's  wrong?" 

"Big  Dick  sent  me.  Bridger's  Pass  station  has  been 
burned  by  the  Injuns,  and  our  coach  turned  over  at 
this  end  of  the  canyon,  five  miles  out.  Dick  wants 
help." 

"All  right.  You  bet!  The  Pass  hands  are  here. 
Injuns  chased  'em  nigh  to  the  door,  but  didn't  stay. 
We'll  go  up  for  Dick.  Who's  with  him?  Did  you 
start  out  alone?" 

"Had  to.  He  couldn't  spare  anybody  else.  There 
are  two  women  and  a  baby,  and  only  two  men  and 
another  boy  with  his  leg  broken." 

"You  shore  did  well.  That's  a  lonesome  road,"  re- 
marked one  of  the  men.  "Better  get  off  while  we're 
rustlin'  hosses  and  tackle." 

Terry  dismounted.  He  was  rather  weak  in  the 
knees,  now  that  the  strain  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL 

THE  coach  and  party  were  brought  in,  and  stayed 
until  morning.  George's  leg  was  put  in  splints — a 
process  which  turned  him  very  white  again  and  left 
him  very  limp,  but  more  comfortable.  What  seemed 
to  hurt  him  worse  was  the  thought  that  he  had  broken 
the  Salt  Lake  trip  as  well  as  the  leg.  He  had  to  lie 
by  now  at  Sulphur,  and  as  for  Terry • 

"You  go  ahead,"  he  urged.  "There's  no  use  in 
your  waiting  on  me.  You  go  ahead  with  your  folks. 
You  can  pick  me  up  on  your  way  back." 

"Not  on  your  life,  boy!"  laughed  Terry.  "The 
folks  are  going  right  on  through  to  California. 
'T wouldn't  be  any  fun  for  me,  by  myself,  in  Salt  Lake. 
I'd  as  soon  stay  here  in  the  mountains.  There's  plenty 
hunting,  the  station-keeper  says.  'Twon't  take  you  long 
to  get  ready  to  travel,  and  we'll  stop  off  at  Denver 
on  our  way  back  to  Harry.  I'm  sort  of  anxious  to 
see  Beaver  Creek  again." 

"Haven't  been  away  long,"  George  grunted. 

"Seems  like  an  age,  just  the  same.  Who'd  have 
thought  when  we  set  out  to  walk  to  Kelly's  that  we'd 
land  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains !" 

208 


ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL    209 

Sulphur  Springs  station,  west  of  Bridger's  Pass, 
was  323  miles  short  of  Salt  Lake  City,  but  300  miles 
from  Beaver  Creek.  It  was  a  "home"  station — served 
supper  to  the  west-bound  coaches  and  breakfast  to  the 
east-bound;  and  the  station-keeper's  wife  cooked  the 
meals.  She  was  on  a  visit  in  Salt  Lake,  though. 

Sulphur  Springs'  scenery  rather  beat  the  scenery 
around  Beaver  Creek,  but  it  didn't  have  the  "outfit," 
Terry  and  George  decided.  The  stable  was  lower  and 
smaller — had  just  height  enough  for  a  horse  to  stand 
in  under  the  heavy  dirt  roof.  The  station-house,  of 
logs  and  dirt  roof,  was  stout  and  low,  to  protect 
against  Indians  and  storm,  but  it  had  only  kitchen- 
dining-room,  with  one  end  screened  off  for  a  rude  bed. 

A  pretty  rough  place  for  a  woman,  this.  The  hos- 
tlers, of  course,  slept  in  the  stable.  That  was  the  cus- 
tom at  the  swing  stations,  and  at  the  home  stations 
where  the  station-keeper  had  his  wife  with  him.  The 
stable  shack  did  for  stock  and  hands  both. 

Sulphur  Springs  station  took  its  name  from  the 
springs  themselves.  There  were  two,  side  by  side, 
only  a  few  steps  in  the  rear  of  the  building.  One 
was  fine — cold  and  clear  and  didn't  taste  extra  bad; 
but  when  Terry  tried  a  sip  of  the  other  it  gagged  him. 

"Exactly  like  a  rotten  egg,"  he  warned  to  George. 

"Smells  the  same,  too,"  George  grumbled.  "I'd 
rather  have  that  old  well  at  Beaver,  with  some  alkali 
and  a  rusty  bucket  as  flavoring." 

For  some  nights  and  days,  while  his  bone  was  knit- 
ting and  he  had  to  lie  still,  George  was  a  trifle  cross 
and  more  than  trifle  uncomfortable.  There  was  good 


210          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

hunting,  for  elk  and  mountain  sheep,  especially  up 
toward  the  pass,  and  for  bear  lower  down ;  and  Terry 
went  out  several  times  with  one  of  the  men,  after 
meat. 

Sulphur  Springs  lived  mainly  upon  game,  aside 
from  the  flour  and  other  staple  supplies  brought  in  by 
the  freighters,  and  now  and  then  traded  in  by  emi- 
grants. 

When  once  it  had  fairly  started,  George's  leg,  aided 
by  the  pure  air  and  the  hearty  grub,  healed  rapidly. 
He  began  to  hobble  about,  with  support  of  a  rude 
crutch ;  finally  rode  by  stage  west  to  Waskie,  the  next 
swing  station,  to  see  more  of  the  country.  And  soon 
he  proposed  that  they  "light  out." 

"Those  stages  going  east  make  me  homesick,"  he 
blurted.  "We've  been  out  plenty  long  enough.  I 
sure  want  to  see  Beaver  Creek  and  the  plains,  and  get 
the  news." 

"You  can't  travel  before  you're  able,"  cautioned 
Terry — who  had  been  dreaming  of  Beaver  Creek  him- 
self. "Harry  writes  us  not  to  be  in  a  hurry;  and  the 
company's  taking  care  of  us.  Ben  Holladay  said  for 
us  to  stay  until  your  leg  was  right  strong." 

The  great  stage  king  had  passed  through,  in  his 
usual  hurry,  on  an  extra  trip  to  the  other  end,  and 
had  seemed  to  know  all  about  them.  Nothing  escaped 
Ben  Holladay. 

"Well,  it's  strong.  Didn't  I  ride  down  to  Waskie, 
and  pan  out  O.  K.?  Let's  hop  a  stage  as  soon  as 
there's  room."' 


ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL    211 

"All  right.  Next  time  Big  Dick  comes  through 
we'll  speak  for  the  return  trip." 

But  getting  away  from  Sulphur  was  no  easy  matter. 
The  stages  had  a  crowded  period.  They  rolled  in 
from  the  west,  full  inside  and  overflowing  outside; 
and  two  fellows  dead-heading  had  to  wait  on  the  pay 
traffic.  Even  the  friendly  Big  Dick  did  not  dare  to 
break  the  rules,  and  no  passengers  conveniently  de- 
cided to  stop  off  at  Sulphur — to  drink  the  water,  or  to 
hunt,  or  to  admire  the  scenery! 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Dick,  taking  pity  on  the 
exiles.  "Next  time  you  see  me  heading  in  the  right 
direction,  you  jump  me  whether  or  no.  I  won't  have 
time  to  put  you  off — I  may  make  a  holler,  but  if  you 
can  stick,  you  stick.  I'll  try  to  fix  the  baggage  atop 
so  that  there'll  be  a  hole  for  your  legs." 

He  rumbled  away  without  them. 

"Either  we  stick,  or  we  hoof  it,"  declared  George. 
And  they  went  fishing. 

It  was  no  trick  at  all  to  catch  a  mess  of  trout.  That 
was  lucky,  or  they  would  have  missed  out,  for  they  got 
back  to  the  station,  toward  noon,  just  in  time.  They 
had  not  been  there  more  than  five  minutes,  when  up 
the  road  from  Waskie  direction  there  came  another 
stage. 

The  station-keeper  sighted  it  first. 

"Holladay's  a-comin' !"  he  yelled.  "Hey,  you  stable 
men!  Dust  the  seat  of  yore  pants — Holladay's 
a-comin'.  Get  yore  best  team  ready.  Gosh!"  he 
added,  "I  didn't  expect  him  this  soon,  but  here  he  is. 


212          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Wish  they'd  give  us  a  telegraph  operator,  so's  we'd 
know  something." 

The  telegraph  line  had  been  put  through,  by  way  of 
the  old  main  stage  route  across  the  mountains,  but  its 
stations  were  few  and  far  between,  as  yet. 

"That  man  almost  beats  the  telegraph,"  answered 
the  station-keeper's  wife,  who  had  hastened  to  the  door 
to  gaze.  She  was  home  from  Salt  Lake,  and  doing  the 
cooking  again. 

"Well,  rustle  what  grub  we've  got,  and  set  out  yore 
chiny  dishes  just  imported  from  Paree,"  her  husband 
bade,  sarcastic.  "Ben'll  likely  stay  three  minutes  for  a 
snack." 

This  was  welcome  excitement.  Everybody  hustled. 
George  limped,  to  help  with  dinner;  Terry  ran  to  the 
stable,  to  lend  a  hand  there ;  the  station-keeper  slicked 
his  hair  and  combed  his  whiskers  by  aid  of  the  cracked 
fragment  of  looking-glass  hanging  against  the  cabin 
rear  wall,  above  the  tin  wash-basin. 

No  whoop  from  the  driver  was  needed  to  announce 
the  arrival  of  Ben  Holladay.  Fast  though  he  traveled, 
news  of  him  was  apt,  somehow,  to  travel  faster.  When 
the  coach,  behind  its  sweaty  team,  pulled  short  before 
the  station,  Sulphur  Springs  was  ready  to  receive  it. 

The  stage  king  himself  was  on  the  box  with  the 
driver.  The  genial  face  of  Mr.  Otis  and  the  black 
countenance  of  the  darky  servant  peered  from  the  win- 
dows. The  driver  tossed  aside  his  lines  as  the  stable 
hands  sprang  to  the  traces. 

"How  are  you,  gentlemen?"  greeted  the  station- 
keeper.  "Dinner?" 


ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL    213 


Stage  King  Holladay  snapped  his  watch. 

"No,"  he  said  as  he  swung  down.  "Fetch  on  your 
team.  We'll  take  a  cup  of  coffee,  if  you  have  it  ready, 
while  we  stretch  our  legs.  Come  out,  George.  You 
too,  Eph." 

"Coffee  in  one  shake,"  promised  the  station-keeper. 
"Drink  it  standin'  or  settin'  ?" 

"Just  put  the  pot  and  cups  where  we  can  get  them. 
My  regards  to  your  wife.  We'll  take  a  meal  with  her 
next  time." 

The  stage  king  strolled  a  moment  impatiently,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  while  he  circuited  the  stage, 
scanned  it,  and  the  tired  team,  and  the  fresh  team  that 
was  brought  out  on  the  trot.  His  eyes  fell  upon  Terry 
and  George. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  still?" 

"Waiting  to  get  away,  Mr.  Holladay,"  respectfully 
answered  Terry. 

"That  leg  well?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  informed  George.     "Well  and  kicking." 

"What's  the  trouble  then?    You  have  passes." 

"Yes,  sir.  But  the  east-bound  stages  are  all  full 
up." 

"So  you're  going  east  again !    Where  to  ?" 

"Back  to  Beaver  Creek,  where  we  belong,  Mr.  Holla- 
day." 

"What  for?" 

"Don't  we  get  our  jobs  again,  Mr.  Holladay?"  in- 
quired Terry,  in  alarm.  "We  want  to  work.  George's 
leg  is  plenty  strong,  and  if  we  don't  catch  a  stage 
pretty  soon  we'll  hoof  it." 


2i4          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Here's  your  stage,  then.  Pile  in.  I'll  give  you  five 
minutes.''  And  at  the  call  "Coffee!"  the  great  Ben 
Holladay  strode  busily  into  the  station  house.  Mr. 
Otis  and  the  grinning  Eph  followed  closely.  . 

"Hooray!"  cheered  George,  capering.  "Reckon  we 
can  drink  a  cup  ourselves  and  board  that  coach  in  less 
than  five  minutes.  Haven't  any  trunk  to  pack!" 

"Harry'll  be  surprised  when  we  land  there  flying!" 
Terry  laughed. 

While  swallowing  the  scalding  coffee  they  managed 
to  thank  Mr.  Holladay — at  which  he  only  grunted, 
with  a  short:  "You  ride  inside  with  Otis  and  Eph, 
then."  They  were  out  ahead  of  time,  waiting. 

The  team  were  standing,  held  by  the  hostlers.  The 
driver  emerged  from  the  station,  drew  on  his  gloves, 
and  climbed  up.  Mr.  Otis  entered.  "You  young 
gem'men  next,"  directed  Eph — the  boys  dived  in. 
Eph  entered  and  closed  the  door,  Mr.  Holladay  bustled 
out,  with  a  few  last  words,  over  his  shoulder,  to  the 
station-keeper ;  and  as  he  reached  the  box  the  brake 
clanged  and  the  whip  cracked  and  the  team  leaped. 

Away  rolled  the  coach;  the  horses  seemed  to  know 
— they  broke  to  a  gallop,  and  the  coach  rumbled  and 
rocked,  while  the  brush  spun  by. 

"Three  hundred  and  ten  miles  to  Beaver.  Wonder 
when  we'll  get  there,"  proposed  Terry. 

"About  this  time  day  after  to-morrow,"  asserted 
Mr.  Otis.  "Ben's  in  a  hurry.  We've  been  averaging 
close  to  150  miles  every  twenty- four  hours,  all  the 
way  from  the  western  end.  That  includes  stops,  of 


ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL     215 

"Yes,  suh,"  chuckled  Eph.  "Marse  Ben  shore  in  a 
big  rush,  'cause  he  got  importonant  bus'ness  in  New 
Yawk.  We  done  went  sort  o'  go-as-you-please  to 
Califohny;  took  thirteen  days.  Ain't  that  so,  Mistah 
Otis?  But  we  gwine  to  beat  it  back.  I  hear  him 
kinder  figgerin'  on  twelve  days." 

"Gee  whizz!"  gasped  George.  "Why,  the  regular 
schedule's  seventeen  and  eighteen." 

"Yes,  suh,"  chuckled  Eph.  "An'  mebbe  we  stop  at 
Denver,  too." 

"The  division  agents  are  trying  to  keep  ahead,  to 
post  the  stations,"  said  Mr.  Otis,  "but  they're  having 
hard  work  where  there's  no  telegraph." 

"No  division  agent  notified  Sulphur  yet,"  replied 
George.  "Guess  he  didn't  have  time.  First  we  knew 
you  were  coming ;  and  next  we  knew  you  were  going." 

Mr.  Otis  and  Eph  sat  in  the  seat  facing  forward. 
Terry  and  George  occupied  the  seat  facing  rearward. 
In  their  old  clothes  they  felt  a  little  awkward,  travel- 
ing by  this  special  coach,  fitted  with  conveniences, 
stocked  with  the  best  of  robes  and  extra  garments, 
and  carrying  Ben  Holladay,  not  to  speak  of  General 
Superintendent  Otis  and  black  Eph.  But  Superin- 
tendent Otis  made  them  at  ease. 

Mr.  Holladay  was  always  "Ben,"  to  the  employees 
— except  when  they  spoke  to  him.  Superintendent 
Otis  was  usually  "Mister"  Otis,  whether  he  was  pres- 
ent or  not.  Only  Mr.  Holladay  called  him  George. 

However,  he  proved  to  be  a  jolly  man,  very  fond  of 
inventing  puns. 

The  driver  put  the  team  right  through:  breathed 


216          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

them  on  the  long  grades  up  the  pass,  but  kept  them  at 
trot  or  gallop  down  hill  and  on  the  level.  At  Bridger's 
Pass  station,  which  had  been  rebuilt,  Mr.  Otis  glanced 
at  his  watch. 

"Ten  miles,  sixty-two  minutes.  Good  enough,  con- 
sidering the  team  and  the  road,"  he  remarked. 

Somehow,  the  Pass  station  was  prepared.  Teams 
were  changed  without  anybody  getting  out  or  off ;  and 
across  the  pass  and  down  the  winding  descent  by  way 
of  the  bare  ridge  pitched  and  lumbered  the  coach. 

While  the  sun  sank  lower,  station  after  station  was 
reached  and  left  behind. 

"Supper  at  North  Platte,  I  fancy,"  mused  Mr.  Otis. 
"We  need  ballast.  We're  traveling  too  light — all  but 
Eph." 

"Yes,  suh.  But  I'm  powerful  hongry,  myself,"  ob- 
jected Eph.  "I  got  to  eat,  same  as  white  folks." 

"That  may  be,"  Mr.  Otis  retorted.  "But  you  aren't 
traveling  light.  You're  the  wrong  color,  for  that." 

"Hi  yah!"  chuckled  Eph.  "That's  right,  Mistuh 
Otis." 

They  arrived  at  North  Platte  station  shortly  after 
sunset.  Forty-three  miles  in  scarcely  eight  hours,  over 
the  mountain  roads. 

"That's  nothing  to  what  it  will  be  when  we  strike 
the  plains,"  Mr.  Otis  volunteered.  "Ben  has  no  mercy 
on  the  animals.  He  always  ruins  several  thousand 
dollars'  worth,  besides  about  wrecking  the  coach  and 
upsetting  traffic  all  along  the  line.  But  his  motto  is 
'Get  there/  " 

After  supper  Mr.  Holladay  prepared  to  enter  the 


ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL     217 

coach  for  the  night.  The  coach  carried  a  mattress  roll, 
that  by  a  clever  arrangement  might  be  spread  out  on 
the  bottom. 

"Mr.  Otis  and  I  go  to  bed  on  our  trips,"  he  said. 
"We  can  make  room  for  the  boy  with  the  broken  leg, 
between  us.  Eph  usually  puts  his  feet  there,  but  he 
can  sleep  atop.  That  leaves  the  other  bov  to  the  box/' 

"I  can  sleep  on  the  box  just  as  well  as  any  place, 
Mr.  Holladay,"  Terry  assure  1  "I've  slept  there 
before." 

"I'd  as  soon  sleep  there,,  or  on  top,  either,"  spoke 
George. 

"No.  You'll  have  to  favor  that  leg  if  you  expect 
to  work  when  we  land  you  at  Beaver  Creek."  Mr. 
Holladay's  voice  was  decisive.  When  he  proposed  a 
thing  it  was  the  same  as  an  order.  "If  the  other  boy 
can  sleep  without  falling  off,  all  right.  If  not,  he'd 
better  stay  awake,  for  we  can't  stop  to  pick  him 
up." 

"Aw,  you  won't  lose  Terry,"  scoffed  George.  "He's 
a  regular  king  whip.  He " 

"Shucks!"  Terry  cut  in  to  put  the  brake  on  what 
might  sound  like  a  brag.  "I've  only  played  at  being 
cub  once  in  a  while.  But  I  know  enough  to  hang 
on  while  I  sleep." 

All  night  they  rolled  on,  down  among  the  moun- 
tains. They  took  breakfast  at  Medicine  Bow,  sixty 
miles,  rode  all  day  across  the  Laramie  Plains,  had 
supper  at  Virginia  Dale,  passed  through  Laporte  in 
the  night;  and  when  in  the  morning  Terry  wakened 
on  the  box  they  were  bowling  up  the  South  Platte 


218          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Valley,  on  the  branch  line  between  Latham  and 
Denver. 

He  changed  places  again  with  Mr.  Holladay,  and 
found  George  jubilant. 

"Going  to  Denver!     Now  I'll  see  my  folks." 

"You  will  if  we  have  the  time." 

"Wish  I  could  telegraph  ahead — but  there  isn't  any 
telegraph." 

And  there  wasn't,  yet. 

The  road  was  fine — part  of  it  as  smooth  and  hard 
as  a  boulevard.  The  mule  team,  a  snappy  four.  The 
driver  set  a  rattling  gait  to  the  breakfast  station — the 
last  meal  before  dinner  in  Denver.  And,  sure  enough, 
they  halted  at  the  Overland  office  in  Denver 
shortly  after  one  o'clock:  310  miles  in  about  fifty 
hours. 

"Do  we  stay  here  a  little  while,  Mr.  Holladay?" 

"Why?" 

"I'd  like  to  say  'Howdy!'  to  my  folks,"  explained 
George.  "They  don't  know  I'm  coming." 

"Well,  they  didn't  have  much  chance."  And  the 
stage  king  again  looked  at  his  watch.  "Half  an  hour," 
he  said.  "I've  business  that  will  keep  me  that  long. 
Yes,  I'll  give  you  half  an  hour;  but  no  more." 

"We'll  be  on  time." 

A  good-sized  crowd  was  gazing  respectfully  at  the 
great  Ben  Holladay;  some  of  the  on-lookers  leveled 
a  few  jokes  at  the  two  boys,  who  in  their  rags  hustled 
so  importantly  out  of  this  special  coach.  But  all  this 
made  no  difference  to  George  and  Terry.  They  had 
their  own  fish  to  fry,  and  no  minutes  to  waste  in 


ABOARD  THE  HOLLADAY  SPECIAL    219 

answering    questions.      They    were    Overland    men. 
"Wish  we  could  get  a  hair  cut,"  George  panted,  as 
they  hurried.     "Hope  the  folks'll  have  a  snack  left 
over  from  dinner.    Wonder  if  my  dad's  here." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FAST  TIME  TO  HARRY 

"I  WANT  to  go.  Can't  I  go  to  Beaver  Creek?" 
Virgie  was  begging. 

"You  can  come  down  on  the  regular  stage  some 
time.  We're  traveling  special.  It's  Ben  Holladay's 
coach,"  answered  George. 

"You  can  see  us  off  anyway,"  added  Terry.  "Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Stanton.  Hurry  on,  George." 

George's  father  was  out  with  the  First  Colorado 
cavalry,  helping  to  guard  the  plains;  but  they  had 
found  Mrs.  Stanton  and  Virgie  putting  away  the  din- 
ner dishes,  and  had  spent  a  busy  half-hour  eating  and 
swapping  questions.  Now  time  was  up.  Ben  Holla- 
day  would  be  waiting. 

Taking  Virgie,  they  hurried  back  to  the  stage 
office.  The  coach  and  team  of  six  mules  were  stand- 
ing ready.  The  crowd  was  larger,  for  the  arrival  and 
departure  of  the  great  stage  king  was  an  event.  All 
eyes  were  upon  him  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  office.  He 
had  washed  and  brushed,  and  was  spick  and  span, 
with  his  expensive  drab  hat  tilted  and  one  of  his  fat 
cigars  slanted  perkily  between  his  lips. 

Mr.  Bob  Spotswood,  who  was  division  agent  again 
220 


FAST  TIME  TO  HARRY  221 

on  the  Denver- Julesburg  run,  followed  him.  "Long 
Slim"  was  on  the  box  as  driver;  Mr.  Otis  and  Eph  were 
inside,  with  the  door  open. 

"Good-bye,  Virgie.  You  stand  here  and  watch  us. 
You  can  come  to  visit  us  at  Beaver." 

"I'm  coming." 

They  left  her  so  as  to  pile  in;  but  Mr.  Holladay 
seemed  in  no  great  haste.  Accompanied  by  Agent 
Spots  wood  he  half  circuited  the  team,  eyeing  them. 

"They  look  like  good  mules,  Robert." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Holladay.  That's  the  Benham  team. 
They  rate  as  about  the  best  trotters  on  the  road." 

"Gee!  That's  the  Benham  team!"  exclaimed 
George.  "You  know  the  Benham  team." 

"I  sure  do,"  admitted  Terry. 

"All  right,"  said  Ben  Holladay  suddenly.  "Let's 
fly,  Robert.  I'll  give  you  an  hour  and  4  half  to  make 
the  out  station." 

"We'll  beat  that  time,  Mr.  Holladay." 

The  stage  king  swung  to  the  box.  Agent  Spots- 
wood  climbed  after,  to  sit  on  the  top  with  his  legs 
hanging  over  the  back  of  the  box,  between  the  driver 
and  Mr.  Holladay.  And  the  boys  piled  inside. 

As  the  coach  door  slammed  the  mules  started,  to  a 
cheer  from  the  crowd.  Terry  had  just  time  to  wave 
his  hand  out  of  the  window,  at  Virgie,  ere  she  disap- 
peared behind. 

"Now  we'll  see  some  fast  work,"  spoke  Mr.  Otis, 
in  satisfied  tone.  "Roads  are  in  good  shape,  no  moun- 
tain grades,  and  Spotswood  says  his  division  is  on 
its  toes." 


222          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Yes,  suh.  That  team  o'  little  mewls  kin  trabble  a 
coach  a  mile  ev'ry  foh  minutes,  I  heah  tell,"  put  in 
Eph. 

"A  mile  every  four  minutes."  Terry  did  some  rapid 
calculating.  "Beaver's  120  miles — that's  480  minutes; 
and  that's  eight  hours.  We'll  get  to  Harry  in  the 
night.  Have  to  wake  him  up." 

"Maybe  Mr.  Holladay  won't  want  to  stop.  We'll 
take  a  running  jump,  and  land  at  the  door!"  planned 
George. 

Mr.  Otis  laughed. 

"You'll  find  the  station  awake.  Nobody  sleeps 
much  along  the  line  when  Ben's  due." 

The  coach  was  out  of  Denver  and  rumbling 
smoothly  on  its  sixty-mile  run  to  Latham.  The  har- 
ness jingled,  jingled,  like  a  shaken  tambourine,  and 
the  twenty-four  hoofs  of  the  six  mules  clacked,  clacked, 
all  together,  like  a  tambourine  thumped. 

The  Benham  team  were  the  pride  of  the  Denver 
division  on  the  Overland.  They  certainly  made  good 
to-day.  They  never  slackened  to  a  walk,  they  never 
broke  to  a  lope;  but  they  trotted,  trotted,  at  top  pace, 
mile  after  mile,  and  only  occasionally  did  "Long  Slim" 
speak  to  them  or  crack  his  whip. 

Mr.  Otis  smiled. 

"Ben  will  enjoy  this.  He's  a  great  lover  of  fine 
animals,  whether  horses  or  mules." 

The  swing  station,  fourteen  miles  out,  was  reached 
in  exactly  an  hour  and  a  quarter — seventy-five  min- 
utes; and  at  a  trot  the  entire  distance,  the  Benham 


FAST  TIME  TO  HARRY  223 

mules  had  averaged  a  mile  in  a  little  more  than  five 
minutes. 

"Change  to  hosses  here.  Four  grays,"  announced 
George,  who  was  on  the  stable  side. 

The  changing  of  teams  was  done  in  two  minutes. 
Nobody  had  time  to  get  off  or  get  out. 

"That's  the  'catfish'  team,  gents,"  yelled  the  sta- 
tion-keeper, as  the  coach  leaped  forward.  "Good  for 
fifteen  miles  in  an  hour." 

A  glimpse  was  given  of  the  lathered  Benham  team, 
being  led  to  the  stable — and  the  coach  rolled  on,  be- 
hind the  fast-stepping  "catfish"  grays. 

Fort  Lupton,  the  next  station,  fifteen  miles,  was 
reached  in  two  minutes  over  the  hour ;  a  short  stretch 
of  sand  had  pulled  down  the  pace.  But,  even  at 
that ! 

"Bet  we'll  pass  the  regular  stage  before  we  get  to 
Latham,"  proposed  George. 

"No.  She  has  too  much  of  a  head  start.  But  we'll 
pass  one  beyond  Latham,  all  right." 

It  was  seventeen  miles  to  Big  Bend,  and  fifteen  to 
Latham — the  end  of  the  sixty-mile  run.  Time,  five 
hours;  average,  twelve  miles  an  hour! 

"Half  an  hour  here  for  supper,  I  suppose,"  remarked 
Mr.  Otis. 

Mr.  Holladay  and  Bob  Spotswood  were  off  the 
box;  so  was  "Long  Slim,"  and  tucking  away  in  his 
vest  pocket  two  of  the  Holladay  cigars.  The  two 
officials  were  scrutinizing  coach  and  team,  as  the  in- 
side passengers  tumbled  out. 


224          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Excellent  work,  Robert,"  said  the  stage  king. 
"But  how  many  horses  and  mules  do  you  think  I'll 
kill  before  I  get  across  the  plains?" 

"Whew!  Talk  about  flying!"  George  jubilated.  "I 
reckon  this  trip's  going  to  stand  for  a  record." 

"Oh,  pshaw !"  laughed  Mr.  Otis.  "In  a  few  years 
more  people  will  think  it  pretty  slow.  They'll  be  trav- 
eling across  the  plains  and  mountains  at  thirty  miles 
an  hour,  and  go  from  the  Missouri  River  to  San  Fran- 
cisco in  the  same  time  it  takes  them  now  to  go  10 
Denver." 

"Will  there  be  a  railroad,  sure,  Mr.  Otis?" 

"Absolutely.  The  California  end  has  already  been 
started  eastward;  that's  the  Central  Pacific.  And  the 
Missouri  River  end,  called  the  Union  Pacific,  is  only 
waiting  for  money  matters  to  be  straightened  and  the 
war  to  be  settled.  Then  it  will  build  a  line  as  far  as 
Nevada,  and  meet  the  Central  Pacific.  That  will 
make  a  slow-coach  of  the  stage-coach,  and  put  the 
Overland  under-land — bury  it,  so  to  speak." 

"Well,"  said  George  to  Terry,  "I  guess  we  won't 
worry  about  our  jobs  for  a  while  yet.  How'll  they 
ever  pull  trains  over  the  mountains?  Huh!" 

They  left  Latham  in  the  twilight.  Agent  Spots- 
wood  was  going  on  through  to  Julesburg,  so  as  to  be 
on  hand  at  every  station.  He  and  Mr.  Holladay 
traded  places  with  the  boys,  in  order  to  drop  them 
at  Beaver  Creek  without  bother. 

"Another  sixty  miles — but  I  bet  we  don't  do  it  in 
any  five  hours,"  asserted  George. 

"You're  liable  to  make  it  in  close  to  six  hours, 


FAST  TIME  TO  HARRY  225 

though,"  replied  the  driver.  "Ben'll  average  near  ten 
miles  an  hour  clean  across;  those  are  his  figgers." 

George  counted  off  on  his  fingers. 

"Half-past  two  in  the  morning!  When  Harry  sees 
us  'light  at  Beaver  from  the  Holladay  coach  he'll  think 
he's  dreaming." 

"We'll  soon  wake  him  up.  Shep'll  be  plumb 
tickled." 

"Good  old  Shep!" 

Until  darkness  closed  in  the  road  looked  familiar. 
But,  although  the  team  were  pushed  relentlessly,  the 
box  was  snugly  comfortable  for  two  boys  and  a  man. 
At  the  next  station  out  of  Latham  Eph  climbed  up, 
to  sleep  atop.  Down  inside,  the  stage  king  and  Mr. 
Otis,  and  maybe  Mr.  Spotswood,  were  slumbering,  at 
least  between  stops ;  but  Terry  and  George  had  deter- 
mined to  stay  awake. 

Bijou,  at  last!  Time,  according  to  the  driver's 
watch,  ten  minutes  past  midnight. 

"Home  stretch,  boy,"  reminded  Terry,  of  George, 
as  with  change  of  team  and  change  of  drivers  also 
the  coach  started  on.  "I  can  smell  Harry's  apple 
pies." 

"  'Drather  taste  one,"  answered  George. 

"Where  you  two  fellows  hailin'  from,  anyhow?" 
asked  the  driver. 

"Sulphur  Springs,  other  side  the  mountains." 

"Been  ridin'  all  the  way  with  Ben?" 

"Yes.    We  belong  at  Beaver  Creek." 

"You  must  be  those  cubs  that  the  station-keeper 
there  is  lookin'  for  'bout  day  after  to-morrow.  He 


226          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

certainly  has  pestered  the  life  out  o'  the  regular  drivers. 
Acts  sorter  wild.  'Seen  anything  of  a  yaller  mule,  or 
a  pair  o'  sore-footed  cubs  hoofing  in  from  the  west?' 
he  asks.  Reckon  he  doesn't  know  you're  comin' 
special." 

"We'll  show  him  mighty  soon,"  Terry  blurted. 
"We're  not  the  kind  that  walks." 

They  passed  the  halfway  mark,  at  ten  miles.  Even 
in  the  heavy  sand  the  team  lagged  not  a  moment — 
the  driver  kept  them  going,  with  whip  and  voice — he 
had  the  big  boss  and  the  division  agent  both  aboard, 
and  orders  were  orders.  The  reek  of  wet  horse-hide 
drifted  back  on  the  dampish  air;  but  Ben  Holladay 
never  spared  horses  when  in  a  hurry. 

"Five  miles  more.  Hope  we  see  a  light  before  we 
get  there,"  voiced  George. 

Beaver  Creek  was  their  own  station;  if  it  wasn't 
alert  and  ready  it  would  be  disgraced. 

"I'll  make  a  light  there  for  you,"  promised  the 
driver.  "I'll  whoop  those  hostlers  out,  unless  they're 
deaf." 

The  miles  steadily  dwindled :  to  four,  to  three,  to 
two,  to  one.  By  the  light  of  a  cigar  the  driver  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"Two-thirty  o'clock,"  he  said.  "Those  are  a  tough 
twenty  miles  for  one  team,  but  we  came  through  in  a 
good  bit  under  schedule.  It's  hard  on  hosses  when 
they're  haulin'  Ben  Holladay.  He's  as  bad  as  an  Injun 
raid  when  he  takes  a  trip  over  the  line.  Gwan !"  He 
lifted  the  weary  sixes  to  a  heavy  lope,  out  of  the  sand 
hills  into  the  harder  plain ;  and  presently,  removing 


FAST  TIME  TO  HARRY  227 

his  cigar,  he  opened  his  mouth  for  a  piercing  yell. 

All  before  was  dark,  while  the  yell  went  careening 
through  the  night. 

"Burn  those  fellows,"  he  muttered.  "If  they're 
asleep  there'll  be  somethin'  to  pay,  when  Spotswood 
tumbles  out  on  'em.  All  together  now,  for  a  hair- 
raiser."  And— "No;  hold  on,"  he  bade.  "That 
roused  'em." 

A  light  had  appeared,  moving  hither  and  thither. 
It  was  the  stable  lantern,  being  rushed  from  house  to 
corral.  Another  light  appeared.  That  was  Harry's, 
shining  through  the  station  house  windows.  Beaver 
Creek  was  ready,  and  the  boys  might  heave  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"Wonder  if  they'll  hook  up  those  six  mules,"  spoke 
George,  anxious. 

"They  will  if  they  have  sense,"  Terry  answered. 
"It's  the  best  team.  Wish  we  were  running  things 
ourselves." 

The  horses  traveled  hopefully,  eager  to  be  at  the 
end  of  their  long  run.  With  jingle  and  rumble  the 
stage  bore  down.  The  stable  lantern  was  waiting,  at 
the  side  of  the  road  in  front  of  the  house.  The  coach 
lamps  shone  ahead,  revealing  the  two  hostlers,  tousled 
and  sleepy,  but  ready  to  jump — revealing  the  station 
house — and  Harry  standing  in  the  doorway,  peering 
out,  but  looking  as  fresh  as  a  daisy  and  as  smiling 
as  a  sunrise,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  half -past 
two  in  the  morning. 

"Whoopee!"  yelped  George,  regardless  of  waking 
Ben  Holladay.  "Watch  out!  We're  coming!" 


228          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Got  any  dried-apple  pie,  mister?"  called  Terry. 

He  and  George  landed  almost  together,  and  rushed 
the  astonished  Harry.  He  stared,  amazed,  and  then 
the  three  pumped  hands.  Shep  bolted  out  and  barked 
furiously. 

"By  the  jumping  John  Rogers!"  gasped  Harry. 
"Next  to  seeing  Jenny  I've  been  hoping  to  see  you. 
Wait  a  minute.  Say,"  he  called  to  the  driver.  "Any 
sign  of  that  yellow  mule  up  your  way?" 

"Nope.     Nary  yaller  mule." 

"Well,"  replied  Harry;  "doesn't  matter  to-night. 
The  two  other  wanderers  have  returned,  anyway.  I 
can  cut  that  pie  I've  seen  saving  for  a  month.  We'll 
go  on  a  pie  spree." 

Beaver  Creek  station's  very  best  team,  the  six  mules 
(which  the  Indians  had  missed),  whirled  Ben  Holla- 
day's  special  coach  into  the  darkness,  and,  having 
watched  it  go  at  full  speed  again,  Beaver  Creek  pro- 
ceeded to  celebrate  the  reunion. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED 

STAGE  KING  HOLLADAY'S  time  over  this  division, 
Denver  to  Julesburg,  200  miles,  was  twenty  hours, 
including  stops.  He  arrived  at  Atchison,  the  east  end, 
653  miles,  in  less  than  three  days.  He  had  cut  the 
schedule  in  half,  and  had  slashed  five  days  from  the 
schedule  across  continent.  But,  of  course,  every  coach 
did  not  travel  like  the  Holladay  special. 

Before  all  this  was  known  to  plains  and  mountains, 
Beaver  Creek  station  had  settled  down  to  business 
again.  There  were  the  twelve  head  of  stock,  includ- 
ing the  six  prize  mules,  to  be  cared  for,  the  same  as 
usual;  and  the  changes  of  teams  to  be  made.  When 
Harry  was  not  cooking  and  housekeeping  he  spent 
much  of  his  time  figuring  upon  the  whereabouts  of 
Jenny. 

"Duke  is  a  gone  coon,  but  I'll  get  Jenny  back  some 
day.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones/'  he  declared. 

The  summer  and  fall  and  winter  passed.  Terry's 
father  had  not  found  the  location  that  he  wanted  in 
California,  but  he  had  found  health,  and  was  return- 
ing to  Denver.  George's  mother  went  East  for  a 
visit;  his  father  was  still  in  the  Colorado  cavalry,  so 

229 


230          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

she  dropped  Virgie  off  at  Beaver  to  spend  the  summer. 

On  the  same  coach  there  was  another  funny-man 
passenger,  much  like  Mr.  Sam  Clemens.  He  was 
booked  through  from  California.  Virgie  and  Mrs. 
Stanton  said  that  he  had  kept  everybody  in  the  coach 
laughing  all  the  way  from  Latham. 

He  was  a  droll-looking  young  man  of  about  thirty, 
with  large  nose  and  mustache  and  receding  chin.  His 
name  was  Browne,  but  as  Artemus  Ward  he  had 
written  a  book  in  New  York,  entitled  "Artemus  Ward : 
His  Book,"  which  was  very  comical,  and  as  Artemus 
Ward  he  had  been  lecturing  in  California.  Just  to 
hear  his  drawl  made  people  smile. 

He  did  not  eat  much  dinner,  but  appeared  more 
interested  in  the  scenery,  such  as  it  was. 

"I've  been  talking  so  much  in  California  that  it's 
made  me  thirsty,"  he  said  to  Harry.  "What  have 
you  got  as  an  alleviator.  In  simple  language,  I  yearn 
to  be  changed  from  a  dry  lecturer  to  a  wet  one." 

"There's  the  well,"  quoth  Harry.  "And  if  the  well 
doesn't  suit  just  help  yourself  to  the  river." 

Mr.  Artemus  Ward  squinted  earnestly  at  the  Platte, 
which  was  muddy  and  bank  full,  although  shallow. 

"That  might  be  quite  a  respectable  river  if  you'd 
set  it  on  edge,"  he  drawled.  "It's  a  cute  little  thing, 
if  you  look  at  it  from  on  top.'  What  else  have  you  got 
that's  wetter?" 

"Bitters'  is  all,"  replied  Harry. 

"What  kind  of  bitters?" 

"Sure  Thing.  I'm  cleaned  out  of  everything  except 
that." 


BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED  231 

"Give  me  a  trial  drink  of  Sure  Thing,  then,"  Mr. 
Artemus  Ward  requested. 

Harry  set  out  a  bottle  of  Sure  Thing.  Mr.  Artemus 
Ward  seemed  to  like  the  taste. 

"How  much  of  that  stuff  have  you?" 

"Nineteen  bottles,  from  a  case  of  two  dozen." 

"I'll  take  eighteen  of  those  bottles.  My  system 
needs  them,"  said  Mr.  Artemus  Ward. 

"But  that  leaves  me  only  one  bottle,"  Harry  ob- 
jected. "And  they  sell  for  $1.50  a  bottle." 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  me,  young  man,"  said 
Artemus  Ward,  "how  many  bottles  you'll  have  left. 
I'm  a  poor  hand  at  mathematics.  All  I  know  is,  I'll 
require  eighteeen  bottles,  and  I'll  pay  you  $2  apiece." 

"How  about  some  Pain  Killer,  too?"  asked  Harry. 
"After  you  take  the  bitters  you'll  feel  pretty  strong 
for  Pain  Killer." 

"No;  I'll  take  the  bitters  and  advise  my  audiences 
to  stock  up  on  Pain  Killer,"  drawled  Artemus  Ward. 

And  when  he  entered  the  coach  he  solemnly  carried 
the  case  of  a  dozen  and  a  half  Sure  Thing  Bitters 
under  his  arm. 

The  coach  rolled  on,  but  Virgie  stayed.  They  were 
glad,  indeed,  to  have  her  at  Beaver  Creek.  She  came 
in  mighty  handy,  to  help  Harry ;  for  this  summer  over- 
land traffic  increased  amazingly.  The  war  appeared 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  everybody  in  the  East  seemed 
to  be  setting  out  for  the  West.  The  stages  were 
loaded,  the  emigrants  and  freighters  passed  at  the  rate 
of  several  thousand  a  month. 

Gold   was   discovered   in   Montana — a   big   strike, 


232          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

This  brought  more  people.  The  Sioux  tried  to  close 
the  trail  north  of  Julesburg,  and  the  majority  of  the 
gold-seekers  plodded  by  the  stage  road  up  the  South 
Platte. 

It  was  reported  that  Ben  Holladay  was  to  put  in  a 
branch  line  of  the  Overland,  to  run  from  Salt  Lake 
north  into  Montana. 

Cavalry — Iowa,  Ohio  and  Colorado  Volunteers — 
patroled  the  stage  road.  George's  father  rode  through 
Beaver,  with  a  detachment  of  the  Colorado  troops. 
They  were  out  to  keep  the  road  free  of  Indians. 

On  the  last  day  of  July  Sol  Judy  turned  up.  He 
trotted  in  from  the  west  early  in  the  morning,  right 
after  breakfast  and  the  departure  of  the  west-bound 
stage,  and  dismounted  to  drink  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Sol  had  been  doing  scout  duty  south  on  the  Arkansas 
River.  Terry  had  not  seen  him  since  the  first  days 
of  the  war;  but  now  he  was  back  on  the  Platte. 

"Yes;  I'm  carrying  dispatches  on  the  Platte  trail/' 
said  Sol,  swallowing  his  coffee.  "And,  let  me  tell  you, 
the  Injun  signs  are  bad.  You  ought  not  to  have  this 
girl  here." 

"She's  as  safe  as  she  would  be  in  Denver,"  laughed 
Harry.  "You-all  in  Denver  were  scared  stiff  not  very 
long  ago.  By  what  the  papers  said  you  expected  to  be 
massacred." 

For  an  Indian  raid  along  the  old  cut-off  between 
Bijou  and  Denver,  following  a  little  fight  near  Fre- 
mont's Orchard  on  the  stage  road  west  of  Bijou,  had 
set  the  Denver  people  wild.  A  company  of  One  Hun- 
dred Day  men  had  been  organized  and  were  to  be 


BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED  233 

turned  into  the  Third  Colorado  Cavalry.  Terry's 
father  had  joined. 

"Well,  that  scare's  over,"  admitted  Sol.  "I  want 
to  say,  though,  that  the  Sioux  and  Cheyennes  are  ugly. 
There  aren't  enough  soldiers  on  the  plains  to  lick  'em, 
and  they  know  it.  During  the  stampede  in  Denver  a 
hundred  Injuns  could  have  captured  the  city.  So  I 
don't  know  where  the  safest  place  is,  but  I  wouldn't 
choose  Beaver  Creek.  If  they  get  to  raiding  the  stage 
road  you  fellows  had  better  move  out,  to  Godfrey's 
or  American  Ranch,  while  you're  able." 

Sol  continued  on  his  way  down  the  Platte  with  his 
dispatches,  for,  although  the  telegraph  had  been  run 
through  to  Denver,  there  was  no  operator  between 
Bijou  and  Julesburg,  100  miles. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  Injuns  tackle  us  some  time  when 
we're  ready,"  George  swaggered.  "That  cannon  was 
no  good,  but  we've  got  other  guns." 

"I'd  like  to  see  them  fetch  in  Jenny,"  uttered 
Harry.  "I'll  fight  for  Jenny.  Concentrate  your  fire 
on  any  Injun  riding  a  yellow  mule,  boys — but  don't 
hit  the  mule." 

"We've  got  Virgie  to  protect,"  Terry  reminded. 
"Maybe  one  of  us  ought  to  take  her  to  Denver  and  put 
her  with  ma." 

"We  will,  first  chance  we  get." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  Virgie  objected.  "I'm  afraid 
of  the  stage.  We  might  be  chased.  But  I'm  not  afraid 
here." 

"Of  course  you  aren't,"  Harry  soothed.  "We'll 
write  a  letter  first,  and  ask  whether  they  can  look  after 


234          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

you  in  Denver.  You're  a  little  Amazon;  and  three 
men,  an  Amazon  and  a  dog  ought  to  be  able  to  hold  a 
station  against  common  Indians." 

"I'm  not  an  Amazon,"  retorted  Virgie.  "I'm  a 
Baptist." 

Harry  wrote  the  letter,  to  mail  it  by  aid  of  the  stage. 
But  this  morning,  August  8,  no  stage  arrived ! 

That  ,was  a  strange  happening.  The  change  team 
stood  harnessed  and  ready;  the  breakfast  cooled,  the 
sun  rose  higher,  and  down  the  road  there  still  was  no 
token  of  the  stage. 

"Well,  that  beats  the  Dutch,"  complained  Harry. 
"One  of  you  ride  on  to  Godfrey's  or  the  American, 
and  see  if  they  know  anything." 

George  went.  Godfrey's  ranch  was  nine  miles  east, 
or  three  miles  this  side  of  the  American  ranch.  A  man 
by  the  name  of  Godfrey  had  started  the  ranch  re- 
cently; he  was  an  old-timer  on  the  plains. 

George  appeared  before  noon. 

"Naw,  they  don't  know  anything,"  he  reported. 
"All  travel  seems  to  be  stopped.  They're  wondering, 
same  as  we  are." 

"Expect  we  could  find  out  more  at  Bijou,  where  the 
telegraph  lands,", said  Terry. 

"We'll  wait  for  the  east-bound  stage  first,"  decided 
Harry.  "It  may  have  picked  up  something." 

The  east-bound  stage  rolled  in  on  time.  It  was 
bristling  with  weapons;  every  passenger  was  armed. 
Driver  Bill  Trotter  held  the  ribbons. 

"West-bound  stage?  There  won't  be  any  west- 
bound stage,"  Bill  announced,  to  Harry's  query.  "It 


BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED  235 

was  stopped  the  other  side  of  Julesburg.  The  Injuns 
have  raided  the  whole  line  from  Julesburg  to  the  Little 
Blue  beyond  Kearney,  and  the  operator  at  Bijou  says 
all  traffic  is  hunting  cover.  This  coach'll  try  to  make 
through  to  Julesburg,  but  whether  it'll  go  on  or  come 
back,  I  dunno." 

That  was  a  stunning  bit  of  news.  It  rather  sobered 
Beaver  Creek  station.  After  the  bristling  stage,  bear- 
ing two  frightened  women  and  six  well-armed  men, 
not  counting  Driver  Bill,  had  proceeded,  the  station 
hands  discussed  the  situtaion. 

Only  Virgie  was  pleased  with  the  outlook. 

"Now  maybe  you  can't  send  me  to  Denver,"  she 
challenged. 

And  traffic  did  seem  paralyzed.  No  stage  came 
from  the  east  this  day.  Two  emigrant  trains,  joined 
for  mutual  protection,  toiled  through,  in  great  haste 
and  very  nervous,  but  Harry  had  no  notion  of  trust- 
ing Virgie  to  them. 

How  they  had  found  out,  nobody  might  say;  they 
asserted,  though,  that  the  raid  had  been  a  bloody  one 
— ranches,  coaches,  freighters  and  emigrants  attacked, 
on  a  front  of  250  miles,  and  twenty  or  thirty  people 
killed.  All  overland  traffic  was  being  held  up  and 
warned  not  to  move  except  under  guard. 

"This  division  is  clear  yet,  I  reckon,"  mused  Harry. 
"But,  gosh !  It's  lonesome." 

Another  stage  from  Latham  passed,  for  Julesburg. 
It  carried  only  men  and  arrived  off  schedule.  The 
driver  had  a  Denver  paper,  which  told  the  story,  as 
received  by  telegraph,  of  the  raid.  The  emigrants 


236          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

had  spoken  the  truth — it  had  been  a  big  raid,  and  no 
stages  were  leaving  Atchison.  None  would  leave  for 
the  west  until  the  road  was  patrolled  by  troops.  None 
would  leave  Latham,  either,  for  the  east.  The  stretch 
between  Julesburg  and  Latham  was  ordered  closed. 

This  shut  Beaver  Creek  off  completely. 

"Boys,"  Harry  said  briskly,  "we  can't  squat  here 
doing  nothing.  I  see  a  way  out." 

"But  we've  got  to  stick,  haven't  we?"  demanded 
George.  "We  haven't  any  business  leaving  the  station 
unless  we're  ordered  to.  There  aren't  any  Injuns 
'round." 

"How  do  we  know?  When  they  aren't  around 
they're  likely  to  be  closest.  But  I've  got  a  scheme." 

"The  worst  they  can  do  is  to  run  off  our  stock 
again,"  answered  George  doggedly.  "They  can't  get 
in." 

"No,  except  through  the  door  and  windows  and 
roof.  And  meanwhile  we  couldn't  get  out.  But  I  see 
a  way — I  always  like  to  see  a  way." 

Harry's  way  was  a  tunnel.  He  proposed  digging  a 
tunnel,  from  the  fire-place  to  the  well.  The  inside  end 
of  the  tunnel  would  be  covered  by  the  flat  sand-stone 
slab  used  as  a  hearth,  and  the  outside  end  should  open 
into  the  well. 

"About  half  way  down,"  Harry  figured.  "There 
are  only  two  or  three  feet  of  water.  If  we  get  smoked 
out  of  the  house  we'll  crawl  through  the  tunnel  and 
drop  into  the  bottom  of  the  well.  We  might  wet  our 
feet  but  we'll  save  our  scalps,  and  Virgie  wouldn't  be 
made  into  a  squaw." 


BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED  237 

"I'd  rather  spoil  my  shoes  than  be  a  squaw,"  Virgie 
agreed.  "Would  the  Injuns  throw  things  down  on  us 
and  smash  us?" 

"Nope,"  Harry  assured.  "They'd  never  guess  we 
were  in  the  well.  We'd  be  hiding  in  the  dark.  Or  we 
could  pull  the  well  right  in  after  us,  and  then  they 
wouldn't  know  about  it!" 

"How'd  we  get  out  after  we  were  in?"  demanded 
Terry. 

"Humph !"  And  Harry  cogitated.  "Let  the  bucket 
stay  down.  Then  we  can  shin  up  the  rope.  Or  we  can 
keep  a  pole  at  the  bottom,  with  cleats  nailed  on,  reach- 
ing as  far  as  the  hole.  But  whether  we  could  back 
off  the  cleats  into  the  hole  I  don't  guarantee.  I  think 
we'll  do  both.  Somebody  might  draw  the  bucket  up 
without  us." 

They  started  at  once  to  dig  the  tunnel. 

There  was  no  travel,  no  mail,  no  word  of  any  kind. 
All  the  stations  and  all  the  ranches  prepared  for  de- 
fense, and  attended  strictly  to  that  alone.  But  what 
was  doing  outside,  Beaver  Creek  did  not  know. 

"My  mother  and  yours  will  be  worried  sick,"  Terry 
asserted  to  George,  as  they  toiled.  "They  can't  hear 
from  us  and  we  can't  hear  from  them." 

"I  don't  blame  'em  any  this  time,"  George  grunted. 
"Expect  ma  worries  most  about  Virgie.  Wish  we 
could  get  a  chance  to  send  her  out.  We  have  to  stay, 
ourselves,  to  be  ready  when  the  line  opens." 

"If  the  soldiers  come  through  maybe  we  can  send 
her  out  with  them.  Your  dad  or  mine  ought  to  be 
along  pretty  soon." 


238          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"Guess  the  Colorado  soldiers  are  busy  watching 
around  Denver/'  said  George.  "This  is  a  big  country 
to  cover.  They  know  we've  got  three  men  to  take 
care  of  Beaver  Creek — and  we  can  sure  do  it.  We 
aren't  asking  for  help." 

"No,  siree!"  Harry  declared.  "Ben  Holladay'll 
never  hear  a  squeal  from  the  Overland  stations.  I'd 
rather  be  at  Beaver  than  at  some  of  them  where  there 
are  only  one  or  two  hands,  bunking  in  the  stable  with 
the  stock." 

Digging  that  tunnel  was  hard  work.  Luckily  the 
distance  was  not  great,  and  the  soil  was  sandy  enough 
so  that  it  could  be  chopped  out;  but  when  they  com- 
menced to  "gopher"  in,  and  pass  the  dirt  back  to  be 
carried  away  in  bucket  and  gunny-sack,  progress  was 
slow. 

They  took  turns  mounting  sentry  and  in  driving  the 
tunnel — sort  of  stabbing  ahead  and  pawing  the  dirt 
rearward,  for  the  fellow  behind.  Even  Virgie  helped. 
Harry  proposed  that  they  put  a  prairie-dog  inside  and 
start  Shep  after  him. 

"The  dirt  would  fly  then,  all  right,"  Harry  gravely 
assured.  "The  only  trouble  might  be  that  they 
wouldn't  keep  a  straight  line." 

Each  night  they  were  dead  tired.  They  slept  so 
soundly  that  on  the  fifth  night  they  never  heard  the 
arrival  and  departure  of  a  west-bound  stage  at  last. 
As  it  was  five  days  over-due,  they  had  not  expected  it, 
and  the  sole  tokens  of  its  existence  was  the  presence 
of  the  sweat-stained  team  in  the  corral  in  the  morning, 


BEAVER  CREEK  GETS  ALARMED  239 

the  absence  of  another  team,  and  the  tracks  pointing 
up  the  road. 

"That  will  never  do/'  quoth  Harry.  "Great 
Caesar!  I  suppose  they  didn't  want  to  take  the  time 
to  wake  us." 

"Well,  how  could  we  tell  they  were  coming?"  de- 
manded George.  "And  they  weren't  on  schedule." 

"We'll  have  to  tie  a  string  to  our  toe  and  lead  it  to 
the  corral,"  Harry  proffered.  "Then,  when  the  Indians 
come,  they  can  pull  it  to  let  us  know." 

No  stage  followed ;  they  had  missed  their  chance  to 
send  any  word,  or  Virgie  either;  but  the  second  day 
after  they  broke  through  into  the  well.  Now  they 
hustled  to  smooth  the  tunnel  and  enlarge  it  at  the 
middle. 

That  was  Harry's  scheme  again. 

"We'll  have  to  make  a  passing  place,  in  case  any- 
body gets  stuck.  It  will  do  for  Shep,  too,  if  he  balks." 

They  chopped  with  knives  and  a  file,  and  completed 
the  job.  They  completed  it  not  a  whit  too  soon. 
Virgie,  who  was  out  early  in  the  morning,  before 
Harry  had  done  more  than  take  a  hasty  survey,  in 
undress,  from  the  door,  came  running  back. 

"Somebody's  out  there,"  she  proclaimed.  "A  whole 
lot,  on  horses." 

"Where?     How  far?" 

"Right  off  south,  .behind  the  house.  I  saw  them. 
Do  you  think  they're  soldiers?" 

Just  as  they  were,  all  raced  to  peer  around  the 
corner  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION 

"WHEREABOUTS  ?" 

"I  did  see  them,"  Virgie  insisted.  "You  keep  look- 
ing. I  saw  two  men  on  horses." 

"Thought  you  said  'a  whole  lot' !" 

"I  guessed  the  whole  lot.     Two's  a  lot,  isn't  it?" 

"Reckon  it  is,  these  days,"  agreed  Harry.  "But 
where  are  the  two?" 

The  sun  was  rising,  flooding  the  plains  with  its 
golden  beams. 

"I  see  'em!"  George  cried.  "I  see  one,  anyhow — 
sitting  his  hoss  atop  that  swell  about  two  miles  yon- 
der. Injun,  reconnoitering !" 

"There's  the  other,"  proclaimed  Harry.  "Up  on 
the  roof,  one  of  us." 

And,  acting  on  his  own  orders,  he  scrambled  aloft. 

"One's  disappeared,"  said  Terry,  while  he  and 
George  strained  their  eyes.  "Gone  to  report,  maybe. 
That  means  more.  Gee,  if  they  come  this  way !" 

"Wish  we  hadn't  used  that  cannon  for  stove-pipe." 

"The  wind  blew  it  off  and  busted  it.  It  wouldn't 
fool  the  Injuns  any  more;  they're  wise  to  those 
tricks." 

240 


GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION     241 

"Here  they  come!     I  see  'em  all!    Get  the  guns!" 

Harry  bounded  back. 

"Close  up,  fellows.  I've  counted  twenty.  It's  a 
war  party." 

"I  told  you  I  saw  them,"  Virgie  repeated. 

"And  the  question  is,  did  they  see  you?"  answered 
Harry. 

"What'll  we  do?  Fight  'em  off  from  the  stable? 
Or  fort  in  the  house?"  George  queried.  "We  can 
cover  the  stable  from  here.  I'll  get  up  on  the  roof.  I 
choose  the  roof." 

"We'll  close  this  house  tight  and  stay  inside,  every 
one  of  us,"  Harry  ordered. 

"Twenty-two,"  reported  Terry,  who  had  been  count- 
ing the  band  for  himself. 

They  were  plain  in  sight,  issuing  from  between  the 
bare  swells,  and  cantering  into  the  flat  open.  War- 
riors they  were;  now  and  again  a  lance-blade  or  an 
ornament  glistened  in  the  sunshine. 

"But  how'll  we  fight?"  demanded  George.  "We've 
got  to  see  to  shoot.  Ought  to  have  loop-holes  in  those 
shutters." 

"We  can  see  out  of  the  cracks.  We  don't  shoot — 
not  a  shot."  Harry  had  thrust  them  inside,  and  was 
barring  the  door.  The  window  shutters  had  not  yet 
been  opened. 

"Wh-what?" 

"Why,  fellows,  fixed  the  way  we  are  we  wouldn't 
stand  a  ghost  of  a  show  with  that  bunch,"  Harry 
panted.  "Drat  the  horses!  Let  'em  take  the  horses, 
as  long  as  they  don't  take  Virgie.  If  they'll  take 


242          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

the   horses    and    leave   us    alone,    that's   all    I    ask." 

"But  what  will  Ben  Holladay  say?" 

"He'll  say  we've  got  sense.  I  consider  Virgie  worth 
all  the  stock  on  the  stage  line.  If  there  were  half  a 
dozen  Indians,  we'd  lick  'em.  With  a  couple  of  dozen, 
that's  a  different  proposition.  We  haven't  ammuni- 
tion enough  for  an  all-day  fight,  and  I  reckon  they've 
better  guns  than  we  can  muster.  Besides,  we've  got 
to  think  of  Virgie " 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Virgie.  "You  won't  let  me 
be  a  squaw,  will  you?" 

"Not  on  your  life,  we  won't.  We'll  put  you  right 
in  the  tunnel,  first  thing." 

"But  what'll  we  do?"  blurted  Terry.  "The  stage 
company'll  expect  us  to  look  out  for  the  stock." 

"The  stage  company  hasn't  bothered  much  about 
the  stock,  or  us  either,"  Harry  retorted.  "In  a  case 
like  this,  we've  got  to  look  out  for  ourselves.  There's 
a  time  to  fight,  and  a  time  not  to  fight.  Nobody  calcu- 
lated on  a  whole  tribe  coming  at  once.  Where  are 
they?  Getting  near?" 

"Spreading  out  and  coming  right  along."  George 
had  applied  his  eye  to  a  crack  under  a  windowsill. 
The  interior  of  the  house  was  dusky,  but  through  sev- 
eral cracks  the  sunlight  filtered,  making  little  bars  of 
golden  dust. 

Harry  tugged  at  the  stone  slab,  and  propped  it  up 
with  a  stick.  The  mouth  of  the  tunnel  lay  underneath. 

"Our  sole  duty  is  to  save  Virgie,  boys,"  he  said. 
"Nothing  else  matters.  If  Mr.  Lo  rests  content  with 


GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION     243 

the  horses,  he  can  have  'em  till  the  troops  get  'em 
back.  But  he  can't  have  her!" 

"We  don't  go  in  the  tunnel  already,  do  we?"  asked 
Terry. 

"Virgie  does.  The  rest  of  us  will  wait  and  see  what 
happens.  They  may  not  try  the  house  at  all." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  in,"  pleaded  Virgie. 

"Just  a  little  way.    You  can  peek  out." 

Virgie  rebelliously  slipped  backward  under  the  edge 
of  the  slab. 

"When  we  all  come,  you  back  along  to  the  wide 
place,  Virgie,  so  one  of  us  can  pass  you.  Feet  first. 
Everybody  feet  first,  remember." 

"I'll  remember,"  Virgie  promised.  "Where's  Shep? 
Don't  forget  Shep." 

"I'll  bring  Shep,  sure." 

"There's  Jenny,  Harry !"  George  exclaimed.  "I  see 
a  yellow  mule,  anyhow.  Yes,  sir!  I  bet  it's  Jenny, 
and  that  scar-face  Injun.  He's  a-coming  for  more 
Pain  Killer." 

"Where?"  And  Harry  rushed  for  the  crack.  But 
George  held  fast,  and  he  found  another  near  it. 
Terry  discovered  a  peep  place,  too,  on  the  stable  side. 
The  leading  Indians  were  just  riding  into  view  from 
it. 

"Oh,  suffering  whillikens!"  Harry  groaned.  "It's 
yellow,  it's  a  mule — it's  my  beautiful  Jenny,  ridden 
by  an  Injun.  That  adds  insult  to  injury.  And  I 
can't  rescue  her!" 

"Wait  till  they  come  in  range  of  my  old  scalp-getter. 
I'll  give  'em  a  dose,"  proposed  George.  "I'll  open  the 


244          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

window  and  tumble  that  fellow  off  the  mule,  and 
stampede  the  whole  caboodle.  Shall  I  ?  This  old  pis- 
tol of  mine  is  a  killer,  when  she  gets  started." 

"Nope,"  firmly  bade  Harry.  "Keep  your  powder 
dry,  and  keep  the  enemy  guessing.  As  Artemus  Ward 
says :  They're  bigger  than  we  are,  and  we'll  forgive 
them — as  long  as  they  don't  touch  Virgie." 

The  Indians  approached  warily,  eyeing  the  premises 
as  if  not  satisfied  with  the  looks  of  things.  They  were 
well  armed  with  guns,  besides  bows  and  lances — and 
Terry  began  to  admit  that  in  a  battle  to  death  they 
would  make  short  work  of  two  boys  and  a  man  de- 
fending a  girl.  They'd  riddle  the  windows  and  door, 
poke  fire  in,  tear  open  the  roof,  and  take  vengeance 
generally. 

That  had  been  the  bloody  history  of  ranches  and  of 
other  stations,  where  the  Indians  had  proved  too  many. 

The  Indians  had  halted  at  the  stage  road.  Pres- 
ently one  advanced  and  shouted. 

"Hello!     Open  door." 

"Don't  answer.     Shut  up,  Shep!"  Harry  cautioned. 

"I  could  pop  him  easy,"  whispered  George.  "Look 
at  Jenny.  She's  going  to  hail  us !" 

For  in  the  background  the  yellow  mule  (who  cer- 
tainly was  the  gaunt  Jenny)  had  been  staring  with 
long  ears  erect  and  neck  outstretched ;  and  now,  open- 
ing her  mouth,  she  uttered  a  resounding  hee-haw — 
hee-ee-haw. 

"That's  her  voice,"  murmured  Harry.  "Oh,  the 
wretch !"  Some  of  the  Indians  had  laughed,  but  Jen- 
ny's rider  swung  his  quirt  against  her  jaw. 


GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION     245 

The  Indians  acted  puzzled  by  the  silence  at  the  sta- 
tion. They  grew  bold.  A  detachment  of  them  dashed 
for  the  stable  and  corral,  to  seize  the  animals ;  others 
guarded;  and  others  rode  rapidly,  scouting  about  for 
signs  and  exploring  along  the  slough. 

They  seemed  to  have  the  notion  that  the  inmates  of 
the  station  had  escaped.  Their  figures  shuttled  about 
before  the  peep  holes.  They  were  a-foot  and  a-horse, 
both.  The  corral  bars  had  been  wrenched  down,  and 
the  stage  animals  driven  out  in  a  hurry. 

Shep  was  growling  low  and  deep.  It  was  a  wonder 
that  the  Indians  did  not  hear  him.  Perhaps  they  did 
hear  him,  for  pretty  soon  they  were  knocking  on  the 
door  and  fumbling  at  the  window  shutters. 

Virgie's  eyes  fairly  popped,  as  she  knelt  with  just 
her  face  showing  under  the  slab. 

In  the  midst  of  the  breathless  excitement,  while  the 
knocking  and  fumbling  continued  and  Shep  crouched 
bristling,  there  was  a  sound  of  scuffing;  Terry  turned 
quickly.  He  missed  George  at  once.  George  had 
been  peeping  through  a  window  crack  beside  the  door, 
in  plain  sight  from  the  kitchen  where  Terry  had  sta- 
tioned himself — and  had  disappeared. 

Harry  uttered  a  low  exclamation,  and  Terry  darted 
back  on  tiptoe — and  just  glimpsed  George's  boot  van- 
ishing up  the  fire-place  flue!  George  had  shinned  the 
flue! 

In  surprising  short  order  there  was  a  loud  bang, 
close  followed  by  a  series  of  whoops  and  yells — and 
down  plumped  George,  covered  with  soot  and  almost 
wild. 


246          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"I  got  him!"  he  gasped.  "I  nearly  got  him — the 
Injun  on  Jenny.  I  didn't  wait  to  see,  but  I  bet  I  made 
him  jump." 

George  had  taken  a  hasty  pot  shot  out  of  the  chim- 
ney top! 

"You — blamed — little — fool!"  hissed  Harry,  furi- 
ous. He  closed  his  lips  tight,  grabbed  the  sooty 
George,  and  dragged  him  to  the  tunnel  mouth.  "Crawl 
back,  Virgie.  We're  coming." 

"Wait  a  minute !  Can't  you  wait  a  minute  ?"  George 
stammered.  "Maybe  I  skedaddled  'em." 

"You've  skedaddled  us,"  accused  Harry.  "You've 
burned  the  beans."  He  fumed,  while  they  listened. 
"What  did  you  do  it  for?" 

"I  wanted  to  fire  one  shot  for  liberty,"  George  de- 
fended. "My  old  scalp-getter  itched." 

They  listened,  tense.  The  momentary  uproar  had 
died,  while  the  Indians  recovered  from  the  surprise. 
Then,  as  quick  as  lightning,  there  came  another  burst 
of  yells,  and  a  perfect  hail  of  missiles — arrows  thud- 
ding into  sod  and  wood,  and  bullets  splintering  door 
and  shutters.  Shep  yelped. 

"Flat  on  the  floor,  and  crawl,"  Harry  ordered. 
"Guns  and  all.  Get  back  in,  Virgie,  to  the  wide  place." 

"Alone?" 

"George  will  pass  you.     He'll  go  first." 

"Aw,  lemme  close  the  rear,"  begged  George.  "I'll 
hold  them  off "  but  a  crash  against  a  window  shut- 
ter interrupted;  and  George,  in  spite  of  his  spunk, 
paled. 

He  obediently  squirmed  backward  into  the  tunnel 


GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION     247 

mouth,  and,  with  an  imploring  "Wish  I  could  give  'em 
another  shot,"  withdrew  his  head  from  sight. 

"You  next;  then  Shep,"  ordered  Harry,  of  Terry. 
He  was  crouching.  Moccasined  feet  shuffled  across 
the  roof — a  mass  of  burning  hay  dropped  down  the 
flue.  The  pungent  smoke  welled  out  into  the  room, 
as  if  the  flue  had  been  covered  over. 

Terry,  with  the  shot-gun,  entered  the  tunnel.  While 
he  was  lowering  himself,  a  window  shutter  splintered 
under  the  blows  of  a  hatchet;  Harry  threw  up  his 
musket  and  blazed  away,  sending  three  buckshot 
through  the  splinters. 

"No  peeping,  Mr.  Lo,"  he  rapped,  undertone. 
"Leave  me  your  shotgun,"  he  directed  of  Terry. 
"Here  comes  Shep,  now." 

Shep's  f orequarters  were  thrust  into  the  hole ;  Terry 
encouraged  him  by  crawling  backward  and  Shep  be- 
gan to  follow. 

Both  barrels  of  the  shotgun  spoke  dully.  In  a  twin- 
kling Harry  was  in  the  tunnel  mouth,  the  slab  fell  with 
a  thump.  He  had  jerked  away  the  prop. 

Terry  crawled,  Shep  had  to  follow,  now,  whether 
or  now,  for  Harry  was  shoving  with  his  feet.  Amidst 
the  almost  pitchy  darkness  Terry  passed  the  wide 
place. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  spoke  Harry's  muffled  voice. 
"Take  one  of  these  guns.  'Tisn't  loaded." 

The  shotgun  butt  met  Terry's  groping  fingers,  as  it 
emerged  from  underneath  Shep. 

"All  right."     And  he  continued  his  crablike  move- 


248          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

ment.  His  feet  kicked  out  into  nothingness.  He  had 
reached  the  end. 

"Drop  when  you  get  there,"  Harry  bade.  "I'm 
coming  head  first.  I'll  hand  down  the  gun  you  have." 

"Drop  straight.  Don't  kick  so  much."  That  was 
George,  below. 

Terry  hung,  feeling  vainly  with  his  feet,  and  hang- 
ing as  long  as  he  could,  dropped,  scraping  the  side 
of  the  well.  He  did  not  have  far  to  drop,  and  landed 
in  two  feet  of  water — splash.  Wow!  He  staggered 
and  fell  against  George. 

Harry's  face  dimly  appeared,  gazing  down  from  the 
hole  above. 

"Catch  the  gun.    I'll  stay  here  a  while,  with  Shep." 

There  was  plenty  of  room  at  the  bottom  of  the  well 
for  the  three,  and  for  the  bucket  in  the  middle. 
Straight  above,  the  rope  mounted  through  a  square 
patch  of  light,  which  was  the  mouth  of  the  well  par- 
tially boarded  over.  The  light  shone  in  for  only  a 
short  distance ;  down  here  all  was  gloom — and  exceed- 
ingly damp. 

Virgie's  teeth  chattered.  Harry  had  vanished.  The 
smell  of  smoke  somehow  wafted  into  the  well,  and  a 
jangle  of  sounds  entered  with  it. 

Harry's  face  reappeared — an  odd  sight,  dirty  white, 
like  a  mask,  as  it  protruded  from  the  hole,  in  the  dim- 
ness. 

"They're  burning  us  out,"  he  announced  with  a 
grin.  "I  can  hear  the  crackle — other  side  the  slab." 

"Glad  we're  somewhere  else,"  murmured  George. 
"They  can't  burn  a  well." 


GEORGE  BRINGS  QUICK  ACTION     249 

"Won't  we  ever  get  out?"  Virgie  faltered.  "I'm 
wet." 

"Pretty  soon,"  Terry  comforted.  "This  is  better 
than  being  a  squaw." 

The  Indians  were  yelling  gaily,  in  great  glee  over 
their  success.  Harry  stuck  his  face  out  again.  It 
was  streaked  with  sweat. 

"That  slab's  getting  hot,"  he  reported.  "Reckon  I'll 
stay  at  this  end  for  a  spell." 

"Where's  Shep?" 

"In  the  middle.  Smell  the  hay?  That  hay's  handy 
stuff  for  'em." 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken,  when  the  square  patch  of 
light  above  was  darkened.  The  head  of  an  Indian 
blocked  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A   CHANGE  OF   QUARTERS 

HARRY  instantly  snuffed  himself  out.  George  raised 
his  arm,  and  his  pistol — but  Terry  clutched  at  him 
warningly.  Virgie  clutched  at  them  both.  The  Indian 
gave  a  hollow  grunt,  his  head  disappeared,  and  the  well 
rope  began  to  shake  as  he  experimented  with  the 
bucket. 

"Let  it  alone,"  whispered  Terry;  but  George  oblig- 
ingly helped  the  bucket  to  sink,  as  the  rope  slacked. 
The  Indian  proceeded  to  heave  on  the  windlass. 

Up  rose  the  dripping  bucket — up,  up;  and  Terry 
and  George  stared  at  each  other  in  fresh  alarm.  If 
the  bucket  stayed  up,  and  Harry  was  cooped  in  the 
tunnel,  how  were  they  all  to  get  out  of  the  well? 
There  had  been  no  time  for  making  a  ladder. 

The  dangling  bucket  swung  through  the  square 
hole,  and  vanished  aside.  Guttural  voices  sounded 
above.  There  was  a  brief  interval  of  waiting  and 
peering — and  down  through  the  hole  popped  the 
bucket,  on  return  trip.  Faster  it  came,  from  the  spin- 
ning windlass;  Terry  had  time  only  for  one  word, 
"Duck!"  and  he  and  George  ducked,  pulling  Virgie 
under  with  them.  The  bucket  struck — "Smack!"— 

250 


A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS  251 

with  a  force  that  would  have  brained  them  had  their 
heads  been  in  its  way  above  water. 

They  all  bobbed  up  again,  Virgie  wellnigh  strangled 
by  the  sudden  plunge.  But  she  did  not  dare  to  cough. 
The  bucket  was  leaving  on  another  journey  aloft.  This 
time  it  did  stay  up.  Minute  after  minute  passed, 
while  they  gazed  expectantly.  They  heard  the  In- 
dians' voices;  the  voices  dwindled,  then  there  was  a 
chorus  of  whoops,  the  faint  thud  of  hoofs,  drumming 
the,  earth — and  no  bucket.  Of  course  not 

Harry  looked  down  from  his  burrow. 

"Believe  they're  gone,  folks.  Do  you  want  to  come 
out?" 

"How  we  coming?"  George  demanded.  "They  took 
our  rope.  That  was  a  pretty  mean  trick.  I  could  have 
plugged  that  Injun  through  the  middle  of  the  face,  but 
I  didn't." 

"Yes,  sir ;  he's  a  mean  Injun — a  mighty  ungrateful 
Injun,"  Harry  agreed.  "I  don't  suppose  he  knew, 
though.  Burning  the  house  and  all  inhabitants  made 
him  thirsty." 

"Well,  we  want  to  get  out,"  Terry  reminded.  "It's 
wet  in  here.  What  do  you  ask  us  to  do?  Climb  some 
cleats?  I  don't  reckon  Virgie  could  make  it;  she's  so 
cold." 

"They're  likely  to  bust,  too,"  said  George.  "And 
how  do  you  know  you  can  raise  that  slab  ?  Things  may 
be  piled  atop  of  it." 

"I'll  try.  Keep  your  powder  dry."  And  Harry 
withdrew. 

They  waited.     Virgie  wept,  and  they  did  not  blame 


252          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

her.  The  water  was  higher  on  her  than  on  them. 
They  waited — and  they  waited. 

"We're  stuck,"  groaned  George.  "We'll  have  to  dig 
toe-holts,  and  drive  pegs,  all  the  way  up " 

"There  he  is!" 

The  boards  covering  the  mouth  of  the  well  were 
being  torn  away.  The  light  streamed  in,  and  Harry's 
head  was  poked  into  the  opening. 

"All  hunky,"  he  called.  "Here  comes  the  bucket. 
I've  tied  it  hard  and  fast.  She'll  hold." 

The  bucket  was  lowered.  It  swayed  into  their 
midst,  and  they  seized  it. 

"That's  enough.    Whoa!" 

"Tell  me  when  you're  ready.  Don't  all  get  in  at 
once,"  answered  Harry. 

"Who'll  go  first?"  asked  George  of  Terry.  "You 
or  I?  What  do  you  weigh?" 

"I  dunno,  now.  I  don't  weigh  as  much  as  you  do. 
Didn't  used  to.  Maybe  I've  picked  up  lately.  The 
lightest  ought  to  go  first.  That's  Virgie." 

"The  heaviest  ought  to  go  first,  to  test  it  out ' 

"But  if  it  busts,  then  we'll  all  be  holed  in." 

"I'd  as  lief  test  it,"  proffered  George.  "I  ought  to, 
because  I  stirred  those  Injuns  up.  I'd  like  to  send 
Virgie — only  I'm  not  sure — and  somebody  ought  to 
be  there  to  help  Harry." 

"Let  me  go.  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid,  and  I  can  help 
Harry,"  proposed  Virgie.  "You'll  catch  me  if  I  fall." 

"I  guess  we'd  better,"  George  decided.  "She's 
strong  in  the  arms — awfully  strong,  aren't  you,  Vir- 


A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS  253 

gie  ?  And  she  doesn't  weigh  much.  Then  if  they  can't 
hoist  us  out,  we'll  manage." 

"Sure  thing,"  agreed  Terry.  "Get  aboard,  Virgie. 
Lift  her  in.  There  you  are.  Now  hang  hard  with 
both  hands  to  the  rope.  'Tisn't  far." 

"Haul  away!"  they  shouted.  "Virgie's  coming 
first." 

The  windlass  creaked ;  the  rope  tautened ;  the  bucket, 
with  Virgie  standing  in  it  and  freezing  to  the  rope, 
began  to  rise  slowly,  but  steadily,  while  Harry  labored. 

Up  mounted  Virgie;  and  the  rope  shortened, 
and  the  windlass  grumbled,  and  they  stood  peering 
after,  braced  to  catch  her  should  something  give 
way. 

She  was  framed  a  moment  in  the  opening;  Harry's 
hand  extended  and  grasped  the  bucket  edge — the 
bucket  was  as  high  as  it  could  go  with  Virgie  in  it. 
He  must  have  set  the  pin  that  held  the  windlass  crank 
from  turning  back ;  for  now  he  grabbed  Virgie  about 
the  waist  and  wrenched  her  to  safety. 

"Good!"  George  breathed. 

"All  hunky!"  Harry  announced,  somewhat  breath- 
less. "Next."  And  down  sped  the  dangling  bucket. 

"You  next,"  ordered  George. 

"No,  sir.     You,"  Terry  objected. 

"If  I'm  heaviest,  I'm  going  to  be  last,"  stubbornly 
answered  George.  "So  you  might  as  well  start. 
That'll  get  two  of  us  out,  anyway." 

"Oh,  come  ahead,"  bade  Harry.  "What  are  you 
fighting  about?" 

"W-well,"  yielded  Terry.    There  was  no  use  in  ar- 


254          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

guing  with  George  when  he  had  his  back  up.  He 
went. 

He  and  Harry  hauled  George  to  the  surface,  and 
they  were  all  together. 

"Here's  Shep!"  Harry  cried,  as  they  turned. 

Shep  it  was,  bolting  with  a  long  jump  out  of  the 
ruined  house,  charging  for  them,  gamboling  and  whin- 
ing, and  then  suddenly  flopping  down,  to  lick  his 
paws. 

"It's  right  hot  in  there,"  explained  Harry.  "I  lay 
on  my  back  and  lifted  the  slab  with  my  feet  and 
scorched  my  soles  near  through.  I  left  Shep  to  take  his 
time." 

"They  certainly  cleaned  us  out,  didn't  they  ?"  George 
blurted,  with  a  break  in  his  voice. 

That  was  so.  The  station  house  looked  like  an  old, 
battered  skull.  The  roof  had  been  torn  open,  for 
smoke  was  curling  out  of  it,  the  window  on  this  side 
had  been  hacked  into  pieces,  the  door  was  charred 
through  by  fire  outside  and  inside.  The  corral  was 
flat — its  poles  and  the  hay  had  supplied  plenty  of  fuel. 
The  stable  gaped  in  ruins. 

Only  the  thick  sod  walls  stood  unharmed. 

"You'll  have  no  trouble  drying  your  clothes.  That's 
one  blessing,"  asserted  Harry,  trying  to  be  cheerful. 
"But  the  chief  blessing  is  that  we're  alive  and  kick- 
ing." 

"Won't  the  Injuns  come  back?"  asked  Virgie. 

"No;  they've  gone  on  rejoicing.  They  think  there's 
not  enough  of  us  left  to  bother  with." 

"Wait  till  I  empty  the  water  out  of  these  boots," 


A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS  255 

spoke  Terry.  "Guess  we'll  have  to  let  our  clothes  dry 
on  us — haven't  anything  to  change  to." 

"You  sit  in  that  house  a  few  minutes,  and  you'll 
be  dry!"  Harry  laughed. 

When  they  prowled  about,  they  speedily  found  that 
Harry's  words  were  true.  The  hay  that  had  been 
poked  into  the  house  was  only  ashes,  and  the  table  and 
stools  and  other  woodwork  were  smouldering,  but  the 
dirt  floor  and  the  sod  walls  still  fumed  with  heat. 

The  counter  and  the  few  grocery  shelves  had  caught. 
Harry  fished  about  gingerly,  and  extracted  several 
cans  of  sardines.  The  coffee  pot  was  on  the  stove 

"Coffee  warm,"  he  announced.  "Lucky  I  didn't 
dump  it  out  last  night.  Well,  nobody  has  to  make  a 
fire." 

They  heated  the  coffee,  camp  style,  over  a  pile  of 
already  burning  wood,  and  breakfasted  on  sardines 
and  coffee,  outside.  Clothes  were  drying  rapidly,  in 
the  heat  and  the  sunshine. 

"I  was  hoping  that  the  smoke  would  fetch  the  cav- 
alry," Harry  mused,  as  his  eyes  again  swept  the  hori- 
zon. "But  like  as  not  the  nearest  of  'em  are  twenty 
or  thirty  miles  away.  Expect  the  people  down  to  God- 
frey's saw  it — they  may  be  coming  and  they  may  not. 
Too  late  now.  Folks  are  mighty  cautious  these  days." 

"What'll  we  do?  Go  on  down  there?"  George 
queried. 

"Yes,  we'll  pull  out."  Harry  sobered  an  instant,  as 
he  surveyed  the  remains  of  Beaver  Creek.  Then  he 
brightened  again  to  his  old  self.  "You  don't  like  the 
well,  and  I  don't  much  fancy  squirming  around  in  that 


256          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

tunnel.  It's  confoundedly  dark  and  lacks  elbow-room. 
And  we're  rather  limited  in  furniture  arid  grub.  We've 
held  the  fort  as  long  as  we  ought  to.  Can  you  walk  a 
little  way,  Virgie  ?  You  need  exercise,  don't  you  ?  I'd 
like  to  see  if  your  legs  are  as  strong  as  your  arms." 

"I  can  walk,  but  I  don't  want  the  Injuns  to  catch 
us." 

"They  won't.  They're  too  tired.  They  worked 
hard." 

"Wonder  if  we  killed  any  of  'em,"  said  George. 
"If  I  could  have  turned  my  old  scalp-getter  loose— 

"Did  you  see  anybody  when  you  shot  with  the  shot- 
gun?" Terry  cut  in,  to  head  off  the  brag  of  the  "scalp- 
getter." 

"Nope;  I  blazed  away  into  the  door,"  Harry  an- 
swered. "If  we  killed  anybody,  he  didn't  stay  to  re- 
port. But  we'll  ask  Jenny,  some  time.  She'll  know." 

With  a  last  look  around  the  forlorn  Beaver  Creek 
station,  which  they  had  grown  to  love,  they  set  out  for 
Godfrey's,  their  nearest  neighbor. 

"Only  nine  miles,  and  we  travel  light — inside  and 
outside  both,"  encouraged  Harry.  "Business  isn't 
rushing,  so  we  needn't  hurry." 

They  arrived  at  Godfrey's  Ranch  about  noon,  and 
were  given  a  hearty  welcome. 

"Yes,  sir,  we  saw  smoke  up  your  way,"  Mr.  God- 
frey admitted.  "But  we  number  only  two  men  and 
two  women,  so  we  have  to  sit  tight." 

The  ranch  was  equipped  like  a  little  fort.  A  sod 
wall  three  feet  thick  and  six  feet  high,  and  pierced 
by  loop-holes,  formed  two  sides  of  a  square,  with  the 


A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS  257 

house  in  the  angle.  One  side-line  was  extended  to 
protect  the  stable,  also.  The  stage  road  ran  past  in 
front,  outside  the  wall,  which  opened  upon  it  by  a 
heavy  plank  gate. 

The  ranch  house  was  a  long,  low  sod  cabin,  scarcely 
higher  than  the  top  of  the  wall.  It  was  a  regular  ar- 
mory, with  at  least  a  dozen  rifles  and  muskets  of  vari- 
ous patterns  hung  on  elk-horn  and  antelope-horn  racks. 

"We're  settled  here,  and  we're  prepared  to  fight  off 
all  the  Injuns  between  Kearney  and  the  mountains," 
Rancher  Godfrey  declared.  "My  wife  can  fetch  down 
an  antelope  at  200  yards  as  well  as  I  can ;  my  daughter 
is  a  close  second.  What'll  do  for  an  antelope  will  do 
for  an  Injun.  But  as  long  as  you  boys  want  to  stay 
we'll  be  glad  of  your  help.  The  more,  the  merrier." 

Mr.  Godfrey's  first  name  was  Hollen.  He  was  a 
strapping  man,  full-whiskered  and  good-natured,  and 
acted  as  though  he  meant  exactly  what  he  said.  His 
wife  and  married  daughter  were  the  two  women  at 
the  ranch.  The  other  man  was  Si  Perkins,  his  son-in- 
law.  The  ranch  had  a  few  horses  and  cattle,  and  a 
store  from  which  overlanders  procured  groceries,  but- 
ter and  milk. 

There  was  not  much  business  at  the  Godfrey  Ranch 
just  now.  Day  after  day  passed,  without  travel  ex- 
cept by  daring  horsemen.  According  to  their  reports, 
and  the  news  in  a  couple  of  papers  borrowed  from  the 
American  Ranch,  three  miles  east,  not  a  wheel  was 
turning  on  the  stage  line,  between  Fort  Kearney  of 
the  east,  and  Latham  of  the  west. 

All  the  great  Overland  route  across  the  plains  was 


258          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

tied  up  hard  and  fast;  horses  and  coaches  alike  were 
idle  throughout  a  stretch  of  350  miles.  Ben  Holladay 
had  suffered  a  loss,  in  time  and  property,  of  $100,000. 
But  he  was  only  waiting  for  the  troops  to  be  distrib- 
uted. 

Denver  was  enduring  almost  a  famine;  food  prices 
had  gone  up  amazingly. 

However,  nothing  molested  Godfrey's.  It  seemed 
to  be  about  as  comfortable  a  place  as  any.  Harry  man- 
aged to  send  out  word,  by  a  squad  of  soldiers  1^at  rode 
through,  that  Beaver  Creek  had  been  wiped  out,  but 
that  all  "hands,"  including  Virgie,  were  safe  at  God- 
frey's. 

When  this  report  had  been  put  upon  the  wires  and 
published  in  the  papers,  certain  mothers  and  fathers 
would  doubtless  be  much  relieved. 

Not  until  the  last  week  of  September,  six  weeks 
after  the  first  big  raid,  was  the  blockade  broken.  Then, 
unexpectedly,  the  first  stage  forged  past  the  ranch, 
bound  eastward. 

They  all  gave  it  a  cheer.  It  was  escorted  by  eight 
cavalrymen,  and  carried  only  mail  and  the  driver. 

"Where  you  from?" 

"Denver,"  yelled  back  the  driver.  "Forty-one  sacks 
of  mail  a  month  old," 

Harry  followed  it  to  American  Ranch,  the  next  sta- 
tion, to  learn  the  news  and  to  get  the  Godfrey  Ranch 
mail.  There  might  be  some  mail  for  Beaver  Creek, 
too. 

He  returned  with  a  little  of  everything.  The  coach 
had  been  the  first  out  of  Latham,  on  the  east  run. 


A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS  259 

Mail  from  California,  Salt  Lake  and  Denver  was 
piled  station  high  at  Latham,  and  there  were  seventy- 
five  passengers  waiting  to  get  out.  Coaches  were  to 
be  started  regularly,  one  or  two  a  day,  and  when  the 
mail  had  been  disposed  of  the  passengers  would  be  put 
aboard. 

There  were  several  letters  for  Terry — the  earliest 
five  weeks  old — from  Denver;  and  one  for  Harry, 
from  the  division  agent. 

Terry's  mother  had  been  in  great  alarm.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  feeling  a  little  better  toward  the  last,  after 
she  had  known  that  they  all  were  safe ;  but  she  urged 
him  to  come  "home"  as  soon  as  he  might.  Terry 
laughed. 

"How  do  I  know  where  home  is,  yet?  She  says 
that  after  the  Injun  troubles  are  over,  she  and  dad  may 
take  another  trip  East,  to  settle  up  things  there.  He's 
out  with  the  Hundred-dayers,  still.  I  guess  the  Over- 
land is  'home,'  just  now." 

"We  ought  to  stick,  anyhow,"  said  George.  "We 
can't  leave  the  road  in  the  lurch." 

Harry's  letter  from  the  division  agent  directed  him 
to  remain  at  Godfrey's  until  further  orders. 

That  night  a  stage  from  the  east  passed.  After 
this  the  stages  ran  pretty  much  on  schedule;  the  pas- 
senger coaches  came  in  pairs,  for  mutual  protection. 

The  line  was  re-stocked  with  horses  and  mules. 
Beaver  Creek  station  was  not  opened,  but  Godfrey's 
was  made  the  home  station,  instead,  being  strong  and 
well-defended. 

Some  of  the  coaches  changed  teams  at  American 


260          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

Ranch,  some  at  Godfrey's;  and  the  passengers  took 
their  meals  at  Godfrey's.  That  was  the  best  arrange- 
ment, until  the  Indians  had  been  thoroughly  cleaned 
out,  and  the  old  system  might  be  adopted. 

The  road  from  Bijou  to  Latham  and  the  crossing 
of  the  Platte  was  closed.  At  Junction,  five  miles  this 
side  of  Bijou,  the  stages  turned  south  for  Denver,  by 
the  old  cut-off  over  which  Sol  Judy  had  driven  on 
Terry's  first  Overland  trip.  The  telegraph  to  Denver 
had  followed  this  old  cut-off. 

In  November  the  Colorado  troops  surprised  the  In- 
dians at  Sand  Creek,  down  near  the  Arkansas  River 
southeast  of  Denver,  and  shot  them  to  pieces.  It  was 
hoped  that  this  would  discourage  the  Arapahos  and 
Cheyennes — "put  the  fear  of  the  white  man  into  their 
hearts,  and  bring  peace." 

Terry's  father  took  part  in  the  battle,  with  the  Third 
Colorado  Cavalry;  but  the  long  march  through  snow 
and  cold  used  him  up  again.  After  New  Year's  he 
and  Mother  Richards  went  East  by  stage.  They 
stopped  at  Godfrey's  for  supper,  and  Terry  was  "pow- 
erful" glad  to  see  them. 

They  were  on  an  important  errand.  At  Leaven- 
worth  or  Fort  Kearney  Father  Richards  planned  to 
meet  General  G.  M.  Dodge,  who  had  been  appointed  to 
the  command  of  the  plains  troops.  Father  Richards 
had  served  in  the  war  under  this  General  Dodge.  Be- 
fore the  Civil  War,  the  general  had  been  a  civil  engi- 
neer, in  the  employ  of  the  new  Pacific  Railway,  and 
had  explored  westward  for  a  route. 

A  lot  of  work  already  had  been  done  at  Omaha,  the 


A  CHANGE  OF  QUARTERS  261 

starting-point  of  this  Union  Pacific  Railway;  the 
building  of  the  line  was  going  to  be  pushed  right  along ; 
and,  by  the  general's  help,  Father  Richards  rather  ex- 
pected to  get  a  job  with  the  engineering  parties. 

When  he  and  Mother  Richards  went  on  from  God- 
frey's they  took  Virgie  with  them,  to  her  own  mother 
in  Leavenworth.  They  left  Terry,  and  George,  too, 
somewhat  excited.  Building  a  railroad  across  the 
plains  and  mountains  might  beat  tending  stage  sta- 
tion— and  perhaps  there  would  be  use  for  two  boys! 

It  was  well  that  Father  and  Mother  Richards  went 
on  when  they  did,  and  took  Virgie.  They  scarcely  had 
had  time  to  reach  the  other  end  when  Godfrey's  Ranch 
saw  sign  of  more  trouble  brewing  for  the  Overland. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED 

"SHOOTING-STAR!  Look  at  the  shooting-star!" 
George  cried  out. 

They  were  returning  to  the  house,  from  the  stable, 
in  the  late  dusk.  The  shooting-star  brought  them  to  a 
quick  halt.  Falling  rapidly,  it  was  cutting  a  long  trail 
of  fire  a-down  the  dark  southern  sky — was  quite  the 
brightest  shooting-star  that  they  ever  had  seen. 

They  watched  it  until  it  had  disappeared  close  to 
the  earth.  Then  they  hastened  to  tell  the  folks  in  the 
house  about  it. 

"What's  that?"  Rancher  Godfrey  demanded.  "Say 
it  again." 

"A  big  shooting-star.  It  burned  from  high  up  all 
the  way  down." 

"Where'd  it  start  from?" 

"In  the  sky — wouldn't  start  from  anywhere  else, 
would  it?" 

"You  may  not  be  so  smart  as  you  think  you  are, 
young  man,"  Rancher  Godfrey  reproved.  "You  saw 
the  start,  did  you?" 

"No,  sir.    But  we  saw  it  going." 

"And  it  sure  made  a  streak,"  added  George. 
262 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     263 

"It  did,  eh?"  Mr.  Godfrey  quickly  stepped  to  the 
door,  flung  it  open,  and,  followed  by  Mr.  Perkins,  his 
son-in-law,  strode  out.  Out  they  all  went,  even  the 
two  women,  into  the  crisp  January  night. 

"Just  watch  the  horizon  in  every  quarter,  and  mebbe 
we'll  see  more  of  those  'shooting-stars'/'  spoke  Mr. 
Godfrey,  with  a  certain  grim  tone. 

They  gazed.     Suddenly  Harry  exclaimed. 

"There  you  are !    East  I" 

They  caught  it — the  star;  but  instead  of  falling  it 
was  rising — swiftly  up,  up,  to  hesitate  an  instant,  at 
the  top  of  an  arc;  then  to  drop,  fast  and  faster,  and 
disappear  like  the  first  one  had  disappeared. 

"Fire  arrow!"  Mrs.  Godfrey  breathed.  "Oh,  Hol- 
len!" 

"Yep.  That's  the  answer  to  the  first,  I  reckon. 
Shooting-stars?  Fire  arrows,  boys!  Injun  signals. 
Might  as  well  go  in.  We  won't  see  any  more  to-night 
— and  I  only  hope  we  don't  see  the  Injuns  themselves 
in  the  morning.  But  those  two  bands  are  trying  to 
get  together,  and  I  reckon  they're  due  to  cross  the 
stage  line." 

"Si,"  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  in  the  house,  "let's  you  and 
I  look  over  these  guns,  so  as  to  be  sure  every  one's 
loaded.  Then  we'll  stack  'em  handy  by  the  door." 
This  was  done.  "Now,  boys,  there  are  twenty  loop- 
hcles  in  that  wall.  In  case  of  a  scrimmage,  each  of 
us  has  got  to  take  care  of  four — shoot  promiscuous 
from  'em,  like  as  if  the  ranch  had  twenty  men.  I'll 
keer  for  the  four  at  the  stable  end,  where  things  are 
liable  to  be  hottest;  Si  can  keer  for  the  four  at  the 


264          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

other  end,  to  keep  the  red  imps  from  flanking  us  there ; 
you  three  stage  fellows  can  divide  up  the  balance.  The 
women  can  load  the  guns,  while  we  pump  lead  out  of 
'em." 

Rancher  Godfrey  and  Harry  and  Shep  mounted 
guard  this  night  in  the  stable.  The  three  other  "men" 
mounted  guard  in  the  house.  It  was  a  long,  anxious 
night,  but  even  Shep's  nose  had  discovered  nothing  by 
morning. 

When  the  danger-hour  of  daybreak  had  passed,  they 
all  had  breakfast.  The  day  promised  to  be  cloudy  and 
biting  cold.  The  chores  were  done  amidst  a  sharp 
lookout  all  around.  There  was  no  sign  of  any  stage 
from  either  direction.  About  nine  o'clock  they  saw 
a  smoke  in  the  sky  away  east,  down  the  road. 

"Must  be  the  Wisconsin  Ranch.  Let's  distribute 
those  guns,  boys,  to  have  'em  ready  at  the  loop-holes. 
That  old  double-barreled  rifle  goes  with  me.  She's 
sure  death  to  an  Injun  at  200  yards,  the  way  I've  got 
her  sighted.  One  of  those  Sharp's  I  want,  too.  The 
rest  don't  matter,  but  they're  all  good.  Si,  he  sorter 
favors  the  new  Spencer  repeater." 

"Wait  till  you  hear  my  humdinger  talking,"  George 
bade.  "She's  a  scalp-getter." 

"Well,  better  save  your  pistols  for  close  work," 
smiled  Rancher  Godfrey.  "I  don't  doubt  your  hum- 
dinger, though." 

"Couldn't  we  all  join  with  the  American  Ranch, 
Hollen?"  proposed  his  wife.  "We've  got  time." 

"What!  Give  ground  to  a  parcel  of  thieving  red- 
skins? Not  while  there's  a  sod  left  on  that  wall,  or  a 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     265 

charge  of  powder  for  a  gun.  After  that,  there  won't 
be  any  of  us  left — and  then  the  scoundrels  can  have 
the  place,  and  welcome.  But  don't  you  worry.  No 
Injun  outfit's  going  to  set  foot  on  these  premises. 
Guess  you  can  trust  me,  can't  you?" 

"Yes,  Hollen;  I  guess  I  can,"  she  agreed.  "Trust 
you  and  Si  and  the  Beaver  Creek  boys." 

"That's  how  I  feel,"  added  their  daughter.  "And 
if  the  Indians  come  to  close  quarters,  ma  and  I  know 
what  to  do." 

Other  smokes  arose.  Hay  was  being  burned;  the 
raid  had  started.  The  defenders  of  Godfrey's  Ranch 
paced  up  and  down  behind  the  sod  wall.  The  wall 
set  out  from  the  house  about  six  feet,  making  snug 
quarters,  with  just  enough  elbow  room.  They  all  ate 
dinner  standing,  so  as  to  be  alert  for  the  first  sign  of 
Indian,  near  at  hand. 

Harry  was  standing  sentry  on  a  keg,  to  get  a  clear 
view  over  the  wall. 

"Here  they  come!"  he  cried;  and  everybody  ran  to 
take  a  look. 

"Reckon  there's  no  doubt  about  that,"  proclaimed 
Rancher  Godfrey.  "All  right.  We  can't  stop  'em  yet. 
Every  man  to  his  post,  though.  Don't  let  'em  draw 
your  fire  at  long  range.  That's  one  of  their  tricks  to 
waste  ammunition.  Two  hundred  yards  is  the  limit. 
If  you  aren't  sure  of  your  range  and  your  mark,  wait 
till  you  are  sure.  A  dead  Injun  at  100  yards  is  a  heap 
safer  than  a  live  Injun  at  200.  When  you  shoot,  take 
your  time  to  shoot  mighty  close,  and  be  certain  you 
aren't  caught  with  empty  guns.  As  long  as  our  guns 


266          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

are  loaded,  those  Injuns'll  never  tackle  this  wall.  They 
haven't  stomach  for  that  kind  of  fighting." 

"Say!  But  there's  a  lot  of  'em!"  George  uttered. 
"Over  a  hundred,  I'll  bet." 

Mr.  Godfrey  was  stationed  at  the  stable  end  of  the 
sod  wall ;  Harry  was  next,  George  next,  Terry  had  the 
angle,  and  Si  Perkins  held  the  short  end  beyond.  By 
peering  through  the  loop-holes  or  over  the  wall,  they 
might  see  the  Indians  plainly. 

George  had  spoken  truth.  There  seemed  to  be  more 
than  100,  as  they  cantered  into  view,  out  of  a  dip  about 
a  mile  in  front  of  the  ranch.  One  hundred  and  sixty 
they  numbered,  according  to  Terry's  count,  as  they  ex- 
tended their  line  and  galloped  forward  in  a  half -circle. 
They  acted  as  though  they  were  going  to  ride  right 
over  the  sod  fort — "Cheyennes,  aren't  they?"  called 
out  Harry — George  was  squinting  hard  along  the  bar- 
rel of  a  Spencer  carbine  poked  through  one  of  his  loop- 
holes— Terry  had  his  cheek  pressed  against  the  stock 
of  another  (they  were  army  guns  that  Rancher  God- 
frey had  bought  or  borrowed) — it  was  difficult  to  keep 
a  bead  on  any  one  of  the  rapidly  moving  figures — he 
could  sense  the  two  women  hovering  anxiously,  ready 
to  reload  the  guns  as  fast  as  grabbed  up,  discharged 
through  the  loop-holes,  and  laid  back  again — Rancher 
Godfrey  sprang  atop  the  wall  and  shook  his  double- 
barrel  in  threat  and  warning  both — the  Indians,  400 
yards  away,  yelped  in  a  high  chorus  and  their  guns 
puffed  smoke — a  few  of  the  balls  pattered  harmlessly 
— Rancher  Godfrey  walked  a  step  or  two  and  leisurely 
slid  down  inside  to  a  loop-hole — "Nearly  time  to  shoot, 


TERRY    BLAZED    AWAY;  GEORGE    EDGED    OVER    AND    BLAZED    AWAY. 
THE   SMOKE    HUNG. 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     267 

isn't  it?"  mumbled  George — "No!  Not  yet,"  cau- 
tioned Mrs.  Perkins.  "Wait  for  pa  and  Si.  They 
know" — the  Indian  line  was  charging  on,  when 

"Bang !  Bang !"  sounded  the  rifles  of  the  two  ranch- 
ers. Terry  pulled  trigger,  so  did  George,  probably 
Harry  did,  too — an  Indian  opposite  the  stable  end  of 
the  wall  had  toppled  from  his  pony,  and,  wheeling 
right  and  left,  the  line  of  horsemen  scurried  back  to 
safety. 

"I  got  mine,  all  right,"  Si  announced.  "So  did  the 
old  man,  didn't  he?  You  bet!" 

"Shucks!  Guess  we  missed,  didn't  we?"  George 
growled. 

"Well,  we  helped  scare  'em  off,"  answered  Terry. 

The  Indian  chiefs  and  braves  held  a  brief  palaver, 
at  the  long-range  distance.  Evidently  they  did  not  like 
the  looks  of  the  fort.  They  were  suspicious  of  the 
loop-holes,  and  the  gun  muzzles  thrust  through. 

Now  the  council  broke.  The  chiefs  and  braves  gal- 
loped to  their  places,  the  circle  was  reformed,  widened, 
and  extended  until  it  enclosed  the  ranch  buildings  on 
all  sides.  There,  400  yards  out,  the  warriors  galloped 
to  and  fro,  yelling  and  making  insulting  gestures,  pre- 
tending to  charge,  and  veering  off,  and  that  sort  of 
thing. 

They  seemed  to  offer  fine  marks,  against  the  snow, 
but  Harry  passed  the  order  from  Rancher  Godfrey : 

"They  think  they'll  get  our  range — want  us  to  shoot. 
Keep  'em  guessing,  boys.  Save  your  powder.  They 
can't  hurt  us  by  making  faces  and  cutting  monkey- 
shines." 


268          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"The  American  Ranch  is  afire!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Godfrey. 

Smoke  was  welling  up  from  the  vicinity  of  the 
American  Ranch.  It  was  being  attacked,  too.  But  no 
attention  might  be  paid  to  that,  for  the  circle  of  Indians 
was  getting  tired  of  long-distance  work.  The  chiefs 
were  giving  orders 

"Watch  close,  fellows,"  Si  called.  "There'll  be 
doin's  in  a  minute." 

"They're  going  to  charge,  for  a  change.  When  they 
get  close,  every  man  to  his  mark,"  encouraged  Rancher 
Godfrey. 

The  two  women  breathed  hard,  but  uttered  never  a 
word. 

Suddenly,  to  a  great  yell  from  every  Indian  throat, 
on  the  Harry  and  Rancher  Godfrey  side  the  Cheyennes 
launched  their  charge.  Falling  into  single  file  a  col- 
umn of  warriors  hammered  forward  at  full  speed, 
whooping  and  brandishing  guns  and  bows.  Their 
ponies  were  fast — they  rapidly  lessened  the  space — to 
300  yards — to  200  yards — to  100  yards — the  guns  of 
Harry  and  the  rancher  cracked — a  pony  pitched  kick- 
ing and  rolling,  a  warrior  lay  in  a  heap — and  another 
— the  air  rang  to  shot  and  yell,  the  warriors  in  the 
background  were  shooting  and  yelling,  also — but  be- 
fore reaching  the  wall  the  charging  file  turned  sharply, 
each  rider  hanging  on  the  far  side  of  his  pony  as  he 
swept  by  and  fired  hastily — and  back  they  all  scurried 
to  the  line. 

"Wratch  out,  here  i"  cried  Si.    "Now  we  get  it !" 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     269 

Scarcely  had  the  one  charge  failed,  when  a  second 
started  for  the  new  point. 

"When  I  shoot,  you  other  fellows  give  it  to  'em/1 
Si  bade,  running  to  a  better  loop-hole. 

He  waited;  he  blazed  away;  Terry  blazed  away; 
George  edged  over  and  blazed  away.  The  smoke  hung. 
Through  the  haze  the  file  was  coming  on — bullets 
thudded  into  the  sod,  the  painted  leader  had  toppled, 
but  the  charge  was  unstayed.  Terry  dropped  his  empty 
Spencer  and  darted  to  another  loop-hole  and  another 
gun — the  file  was  coming  on.  Inside,  along  the  wall, 
Si  and  George  were  shooting  their  best  and  the  women 
were  hurrying  hither-thither,  reloading — and  at  only 
thirty  yards  the  charge  swerved,  Indian  after  Indian 
scudded  parallel  until  he  had  emptied  his  gun  also,  and 
bending  and  hanging,  fled. 

They  left  several  warriors  and  ponies  flat  on  the 
snow. 

"Hooray!  How  many'd  you  get?"  panted  George, 
his  face  smudged  by  powder. 

"I  dunno.    How  many'd  you?" 

"I  dunno.    Wonder  if  they've  quit." 

"Not  yet,"  Si  declared.  "They're  goin'  to  try  again ; 
try  Another  set  o'  loop-holes,  I  reckon.  They  won't 
leave  their  dead  and  wounded,  either,  if  they  can  help 
it." 

The  Cheyennes  were  determined.  They  did  try 
again,  and  again — charging  furiously,  and  peppering 
the  wall,  to  smother  the  loop-holes.  But  every  set  of 
loop-holes  met  them  with  a  storm  of  bullets. 

Swinging  low,  by  pairs,  from  their  ponies,  they  tried 


270          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

to  swoop  their  dead  and  wounded  away.  "Old  Man" 
Godfrey  made  a  specialty  of  stopping  that.  His 
double-barreled  rifle  certainly  did  great  work,  any- 
where up  to  200  yards.  No  rescue  party  succeeded, 
in  front  of  him. 

The  Cheyennes  kept  charging.  They  gave  nobody 
in  the  fort  a  minute's  rest.  What  with  peering  and 
scampering  and  shooting,  Terry  grew  so  tired  that  he 
was  numb,  except  for  a  throbbing  shoulder  and  a  blis- 
tered trigger-finger.  His  head  whirled  with  the  noise 
and  the  smoke,  and  the  jar  of  the  explosions.  George 
had  a  puffed  lip,  from  a  kick  by  a  gun-stock.  The 
women's  skirts  were  torn  and  soiled  by  running  and 
stooping.  The  loop-holes  were  chopped  and  furrowed 
— a  bullet  had  burned  Harry's  cheek,  and  Si  had  been 
half  blinded  by  flying  chips. 

There  came  a  lull. 

"What  now?"  croaked  Si. 

A  number  of  the  Indians  had  dismounted,  at  their 
safe  distance,  to  gather  opposite  the  stable. 

"They're  going  to  try  fire,  boys,"  Rancher  Godfrey 
called.  "Stay  where  you  are.  We'll  tend  to  it  and  to 
this  end." 

Between  the  buildings  and  the  river  the  bottom-land 
was  heavy  with  dried  grass  and  weeds.  Smoke  arose ; 
the  dismounted  Indians  fanned  with  their  blankets  and 
robes ;  flames  sprang  up  into  the  breeze ;  the  crackling- 
sounded  fiercely  and  the  fire  itself  charged  for  the  hay 
stacked  close  to  the  corral. 

Under  cover  of  the  rolling  smoke  the  Indians  fol- 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     271 

lowed,  shooting  with  their  guns  and  with  burning  ar- 
rows. 

"Guard  the  wall,  you  two !"  shouted  Si  at  Terry  and 
George.  He  ran  to  the  corner  of  the  house,  Harry 
ran  between  house  and  stable;  Mr.  Godfrey  seized  a 
bucket  of  water,  and  ran  beyond  the  stable  to  the  hay. 
Si  and  Harry  shot  rapidly  through  the  smoke.  The 
hay  was  smouldering — Rancher  Godfrey  doused  it 
again  and  again,  stamped  the  sparks,  paid  no  attention 
to  the  hailing  bullets  and  arrows. 

The  fire  died  out  on  the  trampled  snow — a  tongue 
of  it  licked  for  the  corral  and  the  feed  racks.  Rancher 
Godfrey  countered  that,  and  the  fire  passed  on,  to  quit 
of  its  own  accord  in  the  thinner  grass. 

With  a  hasty  glance  around  to  make  certain,  Mr. 
Godfrey  rushed  back  to  place.  He  had  not  been 
touched. 

When  dusk  settled,  the  Indians  withdrew,  in  groups, 
to  the  bottoms;  made  fires  and  acted  as  if  they  were 
going  to  camp  for  the  night.  They  likely  enough  had 
plenty  of  meat,  and  were  planning  to  watch  the  stage 
road  both  ways  and  wait  until  morning. 

"Well,"  spoke  Si,  turning  from  his  post,  "what's  fair 
for  one  is  fair  for  t'other,  I  reckon.  We  can  take  it 
a  little  more  easy  ourselves.  How  many  did  we  grass 
in  this  first  brush,  I  wonder?  What's  your  count, 
youngster  ?" 

"Five,  out  in  front  here,"  Terry  answered. 

"Three  'round  this  end.     That's  eight." 

Rancher  Godfrey  was  striding  down  along  the  wall. 


272          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

He  was  powder-stained  and  flame-scorched,  his  eyes 
bloodshot  and  his  whiskers  singed. 

"Eight,  you  say/  We  went  you  one  better.  That's 
seventeen  dead,  and  I  dunno  how  many  wounded.  But 
the  pesky  varmints  are  bound  to  stick.  By  jiminy,  they 
sure  kept  us  busy.  There  are  sixty  bullet-holes  in  that 
one  side  of  the  stable,  where  they  peppered  me  while  I 
was  fighting  fire.  We'll  be  hard  pushed  to  hold  out 
through  another  such  brush,  to-morrow.  After  the 
women  folks  get  us  a  bite  to  eat,  somebody'll  have  to 
ride  for  help — take  his  chance  of  breaking  loose  and 
reaching  the  soldiers." 

"Up  or  down  river,  Hollen?" 

"Up,  west.  The  road  east  is  closed.  The  American 
Ranch  is  gone,  I  judge;  Wisconsin  Ranch  is  gone; 
maybe  Valley  Station  is  gone.  It's  eighteen  miles,  any- 
way, and  whether  troops  are  still  there,  I  daren't  say. 
It  did  have  a  small  bunch.  But  there  are  troops  at  the 
Junction;  only  twenty-four  miles,  and  when  a  man 
got  free  he'd  have  an  open  road." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Harry,  behind  him. 

Rancher  Godfrey  quickly  whirled  on  Harry. 

"No,  sir,  you  won't.  Not  unless  we  draw  lots. 
These  two  boys  are  exempt,  but  we  men'll  draw  lots." 

"Not  much!"  And  Harry  laughed — a  tired  laugh, 
but  none  the  less  honest.  "You've  got  wives  to  protect. 
I've  nothing  but  myself.  I  ride  light,  too." 

"Can  you  ride,  so's  to  make  it  ?  That's  the  question, 
then." 

"He's    ridden    Pony    Express,"    Terry    defended. 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED     273 

"George  or  I'll  go,   if  he  doesn't.     We  can   ride." 

Mr.  Godfrey  eyed  Harry,  sizing  him  up. 

"What  do  you  say,  Si?" 

"We  can't  all  go.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  tackle  it 
myself.  I'll  do  anything  to  save  these  women." 

"My  idea  exactly,"  smiled  Harry.  "And  I'm  go- 
ing." 

Rancher  Godfrey's  face  cleared.  He  clapped  Harry 
on  the  shoulder — which  happened  to  be  a  sore  shoulder, 
and  made  Harry  wince. 

"All  right.  You've  got  the  nerve  and  the  heart, 
Mister  Man,  and  we'll  fix  you  out  so  you'll  do  the  busi- 
ness. You  take  that  bay  hoss  of  mine.  With  half  a 
show  he'll  run  a  circle  'round  the  best  Injun  pony  on 
the  plains.  Now  we'll  wait  till  plumb  dark.  The  later, 
the  better,  as  long  as  you  get  back  at  daylight.  When 
daylight  comes,  we're  in  for  another  fight.  Ammuni- 
tion won't  last  forever,  against  a  hundred  and  fifty 
Injuns.  That's  what  worries  me:  the  ammunition." 

They  took  turns  at  sentry  and  eating  supper.  The 
darkness  deepened.  The  Indian  fires  glowed;  about 
ten  o'clock  they  began  to  wink  out,  and  the  wailing  and 
angry  whooping  and  savage  dancing  to  cease. 

"Might  as  well  start,"  remarked  Mr.  Godfrey,  after 
another  hour,  rousing  Harry  from  a  snatched  sleep. 
"I  don't  see  any  sign  of  Injuns  on  the  plains  side  of 
the  ranch.  They're  all  camped  where  they  can  build 
fires.  If  you  ride  straight  south,  keeping  the  ranch  be- 
twixt you  and  the  camp,  till  you're  out  of  sight,  then 
you  can  swing  west  and  let  your  hoss  travel." 

The  two  women  were  strongly  set  against  anybody's 


274          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

going,  but  they  were  over-ruled.  Harry  prepared.  He 
wrapped  his  feet  in  gunny-sacking;  the  horse's  hoofs 
were  also  to  be  wrapped  in  sacking.  That  was  to 
deaden  the  sound  while  he  led  his  mount  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance. Good  scheme!  The  Indians'  ears  were  sharp; 
they'd  be  alert  for  any  token  of  movement  from  the 
ranch. 

Taking  the  horse  by  the  bridle-reins,  and  carrying 
a  Spencer  carbine,  with  the  promise,  "You  can  de- 
pend on  me,  people,"  Harry  issued  through  the  gate 
into  the  cold  gloom.  He  silently  disappeared.  The 
night  swallowed  him  amidst  the  lonely  winter  plain. 

They  strained  to  listen.  Moment  after  moment 
passed.  Rancher  Godfrey  slapped  his  thight. 

"By  jinks,  he's  got  away!  Now  if  he  doesn't  lose 
his  course " 

Hark!  A  distant  shot — another,  and  another!  A 
burst  of  excited  yells 

"Oh,  the  dickens!  They're  after  him,"  George 
groaned. 

The  women  exclaimed.  The  pursuit  cries  died  out 
in  the  night. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  catch  him,  Hollen?" 

"Not  if  he  had  time  to  take  off  that  sacking.  But 
he'll  have  to  ride.  He's  got  twenty-four  miles  ahead 
of  him." 

"Be  ready  to  let  him  in  if  he  circles  back,"  warned 
Si. 

"He'll  not  come  back,"  asserted  Terry.  "He's  not 
that  kind.  He'll  beat  the  Injuns  and  keep  a-going. 
That's  his  style." 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  FORT  WICKED      275 

"Guess  so"  George  supported  loyally.  "Harry's  no 
slouch  on  a  hoss ;  and  he  said  we  could  depend  on  him." 

Quiet  reigned  abroad.  The  sounds  of  alarm  had 
quit  entirely.  But  it  was  an  uneasy  night.  Asleep  or 
on  guard,  they  could  not  help  wondering  and  fearing. 
Before  daybreak  everybody  was  up,  to  man  the  wall. 

The  darkness  gradually  paled  to  gray;  the  air  had 
the  feel  of  snow.  Si  was  on  lookout.  Terry  was  just 
saying  to  George:  "If  they're  coming,  I  wish  they'd 
come/'  when  Si  shouted:  "Here  they  are!" — at  the 
same  instant  half  a  dozen  fire-arrows  streaked  into  the 
haystack.  "Old  Man"  Godfrey's  rifle  spoke  briskly, 
but  the  hay  flared  up  with  angry  crackle,  and,  amidst 
a  horrid  outburst  of  whoops  and  gun-shots,  the  day- 
break attack  was  on. 

It  struck  from  all  sides.  The  Indians  were  a-foot. 
Their  dark  forms  swarmed  over  the  snow.  Terry  let 
drive  right,  left,  before,  from  now  this  loop-hole,  now 
that,  as  fast  as  he  could  grab  a  gun  and  take  hasty 
aim.  George  was  darting  and  firing.  The  weapons  of 
the  two  ranchers  rang  staccato.  At  the  stable  end  "Old 
Man"  Godfrey  wras  shooting  in  defiance  of  Indians 
and  burning  stack  both.  The  women  were  running 
frantically  up  and  down,  reloading  the  pieces.  Shep 
barked.  The  whole  length  of  the  wall  spit  flame.  The 
smoke  of  hay  and  powder  hung  chokingly ;  the  bullets 
from  without  spatted  into  the  sod,  whisked  through  the 
loop-holes,  driving  showers  of  splinters  before  them; 
arrows  were  being  sped  high  into  the  air  above,  to 
drop  hissing,  point  first,  and  jut  from  the  roofs  and 
the  wall  top  and  chip  the  frozen  earth,  between. 


276          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

It  did  seem  as  though  the  Indians  were  determined 
to  make  an  end  of  the  matter,  at  once.  Of  course,  no- 
body wasted  any  time  discussing  that.  To  shoot,  and 
to  shoot  hard  and  fast,  was  the  business  of  the  mo- 
ment. Then,  suddenly  again,  the  attack  slackened — 
Rancher  Godfrey's  voice  cheered  joyously — 'They're 
running!  Hurrah,  boys!  They've  got  enough!" — 
and  through  the  smoke  pall  the  forms  of  the  Cheyennes 
might  be  glimpsed  scampering  wildly,  with  many  a 
backward  shot,  but  fleeing,  nevertheless. 

Si  cheered,  and  sprang  atop  the  wall. 

"The  soldiers !    Hurrah !    Here  they  come/' 

Terry  scrambled,  George  scrambled,  to  see,  regard- 
less of  bullet  and  arrow.  From  up  the  road,  horsemen 
were  pelting  on.  A  part  of  them  veered  aside  to  chase 
the  fleeing  Indians  who  had  bolted  for  their  ponies  and 
were  scouring  away.  The  rest  galloped  to  the  little 
fort.  The  first  to  arrive  was  Harry,  with  Scl  Judy 
close  behind,  and  George's  father. 

The  gate  was  already  open  for  them  to  ride  in,  but 
Terry  and  George  had  leaped  outside  to  greet  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HARRY   RESCUES   A    FRIEND 

Now  it  was  afternoon  at  Godfrey's.  The  detach- 
ment of  the  First  Colorado  Cavalry  had  stayed  to  rest 
their  horses  and  to  eat.  The  Cheyennes  had  speedily 
retreated  out  of  sight.  Nobody  at  the  ranch  had  been 
hurt  seriously.  The  hay  was  the  chief  loss.  Harry 
had  told  his  story.  The  Indians  had  chased  him,  but 
he  had  given  them  the  slip  and  arrived  O.  K.  at  the 
Junction. 

A  wounded  Cheyenne  had  been  brought  into  the 
ranch  by  the  soldiers.  He  grunted  to  Sol's  questions — 
and  Sol  had  laughed. 

"He  says  this  place  is  heap  bad  for  Injuns.  Chey- 
ennes are  going  to  call  it  'Fort  Wicked.'  Wants  to 
know  how  many  men  it  has.  He  doesn't  see  'em,  but 
he  thinks  it  mustered  at  least  fifty,  by  the  way  it  shot." 

"Fort  Wicked,  eh?"  Rancher  Godfrey  replied. 
"That's  right.  It  can  act  up  mighty  wicked  when  it's 
riled.  The  name's  good.  We'll  adopt  it." 

And  as  "Fort  Wicked"  the  Godfrey  Ranch  was 
known.  "Old  Man  Wicked,"  the  plains  people  pro- 
ceeded to  call  Mr.  Godfrey  himself. 

Sol  and  a  squad  had  scouted  to  American  Ranch. 
277 


278          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

They  returned  with  bad  news.  George's  father, 
who  was  lieutenant  commanding  the  detachment,  made 
ready  to  march  east. 

"You  station  hands  are  to  ride  along  with  us, 
George,"  he  bade.  "We'll  take  Godfrey  and  his  fam- 
ily, too,  if  they'll  come." 

"Aw,  no!"  objected  George.  "We'll  stay.  We've 
got  to  stay  and  tend  to  the  stages." 

"We're  going  right  on  through  to  Fort  Rankin  at 
Julesburg,  and  we've  instructions  to  clean  up  the  line 
as  we  go;  move  everybody  that  we  can,  under  escort. 
There  may  not  be  a  stage  either  way  for  a  month.  As 
like  as  not  there's  scarcely  a  station  or  a  ranch  along 
the  Platte  between  the  Junction  and  Julesburg,  except 
this  one.  I'll  take  you — and  Terry,  too,"  added  Mr. 
Stanton.  "His  mother  and  yours  have  had  worry 
enough;  and  I  can't  say  that  his  father  and  I  have 
rested  very  easy,  although,  of  course,  we  felt  that  you 
both  had  to  do  your  duty.  But  now  you've  got  to  pull 
out  to  safer  quarters  than  a  stage  station  alone  in  In- 
jun country,  and  of  no  special  use,  either." 

"Is  Harry  coming?" 

"He  has  orders  to.  He's  worn  out.  A  man  that 
fought  Indians  half  a  day  and  then  rode  fifty  and  more 
miles  by  night  is  entitled  to  a  rest." 

"But  we  ought  not  to  leave  Mr.  Godfrey,"  Terry 
pleaded. 

"How  about  you,  sir?  Will  you  take  your  family 
out  to  Rankin?"  inquired  Lieutenant  Stanton,  of  the 
rancher. 

"No,  sir !    Leave  us  ammunition,  and  we'll  hold  the 


HARRY  RESCUES  A  FRIEND          279 

fort.  I've  worked  too  hard  on  this  ranch  to  give  it 
up  that  way.  I  don't  fear  the  Injuns,  as  long  as  we 
can  fight.  That  band  won't  come  back;  and  I  reckon 
they're  all  going  to  steer  clear  of  Fort  Wicked  for 
some  time." 

"Well,  I'll  leave  you  a  corporal  and  squad  for  a  few 
days  till  the  road's  patrolled  a  little  better.  That'll 
give  you  a  chance  to  rest  yourselves.  The  telegraph 
wires  are  down.  You're  cut  off  completely.  So  I 
don't  want  to  strip  you.  But  I'll  have  to  take  the  sta- 
tion hands.  Those  are  the  orders." 

"That's  the  proper  thing  to  do,"  assented  "Old  Man, 
Wicked."  "These  two  boys  have  done  their  stint,  and 
so  has  Revere.  They  won't  be  needed,  and  it's  time 
they  got  out." 

Harry  had  snatched  a  little  more  sleep.  When 
awakened  for  the  start,  he  tried  to  appear  as  fresh  as 
the  usual  daisy.  Horses  were  readily  supplied.  There 
were  the  stage  stock  and  the  ranch  stock ;  and  the  sol- 
diers had  caught  a  couple  of  Cheyenne  ponies,  wan- 
dering loose,  and  saddled  and  bridled,  Indian  fashion. 

One  was  spotted — a  pinto,  or  "paint" ;  the  other  was 
jet  black.  These  were  promptly  turned  over  to  the 
"boys" ;  the  pinto  fell,  by  lot,  to  George,  the  black  to 
Terry;  and  they  certainly  were  prizes.  They  bore 
Cheyenne  brands,  and  doubtless  could  travel  all  day. 
The  saddles  were  Mexican  saddles,  high  before  and 
behind,  and  narrow,  but  mighty  secure.  The  stirrups 
had  been  cut  off  and  buffalo-hide  loops  suspended, 
through  which  the  rider  thrust  his  leg  when  he  wanted 
to  hano-  at  one  side;  but  stirrups  could  be  easily  at- 


280          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

tached.  The  bridles  were  regular  bridles,  of  Mexican 
curb  bits — jaw-breakers — and  braided  horse-hair  reins. 
Each  pony  was  dragging  a  hide  neck-thong,  or  lariat. 
All  in  all,  the  boys  were,  as  Terry  expressed  it,  "'plumb 
tickled"  with  such  spoils  of  war. 

Harry  fared  well,  too.  Mr.  Godfrey  insisted  upon 
giving  him  the  fast  bay  horse,  which,  after  a  feed  and 
rub-down,  seemed  ready  to  set  out  again.  The  stage 
stock  was  left  at  the  ranch,  until  the  company  called 
upon  it  when  the  stations  were  opened  again. 

Fort  Rankin  was  a  short  mile  this  side  of  Julesburg, 
and  Julesburg  was  about  seventy  miles  from  Godfrey's. 
Snow  was  falling  at  last,  the  cavalry  had  to  move 
slowly  and  cautiously,  and  the  trip  proved  to  be  long. 

This  day  they  got  only  as  far  as  American  Ranch. 
Alas  for  American  Ranch!  Its  doors  and  windows 
gaped  blackly.  Not  a  living  thing  remained.  The 
ashes  were  warm,  but  the  bodies  of  the  men  were  stiff 
and  cold.  Mrs.  Morrison,  the  wife  of  the  station- 
keeper,  probably  had  been  carried  off. 

Sol  circled  about  and  struck  a  trail.  He  led  a  squad 
out  to  follow;  was  gone  all  night  and  until  the  next 
noon,  but  never  sighted  an  Injun. 

Wisconsin  Ranch  had  been  burned.  At  Valley  Sta- 
tion there  were  a  number  of  refugees,  mainly  women 
and  children;  the  little  handful  of  troops 'had  been  un- 
able to  move.  The  stage  road  down  to  Julesburg  was 
reported  to  be  swarming  with  the  Indians. 

So  the  detachment  marched  more  cautiously  than 
ever.  Things  looked  very  serious.  The  weather  had 
turned  bitterly  cold,  thirty  below  zero ;  the  ranch  peo- 


HARRY  RESCUES  A  FRIEND          281 

pie  now  and  then  picked  up  had  to  be  protected,  and 
the  country  scouted,  right  and  left. 

Other  ranches  had  been  attacked,  and  other  stage 
stations.  Several  were  still  in  flames;  Indians  were 
sighted,  reconnoitering  from  the  hills.  The  telegraph 
wires  had  been  broken  and  dragged  about  over  the 
ground;  what  was  occurring  down  the  trail  nobody 
might  say. 

On  account  of  the  halts,  and  the  weather,  and  the 
side-stepping  to  avoid  ambushes,  it  did  seem  as  though 
Fort  Rankin  and  Julesburg  would  never  be  reached. 
But  the  miles  lessened  in  number ;  to  fifty,  and  to  forty, 
and  to  thirty,  and  twenty,  and  ten,  and  five 

Sol  Judy  had  been  scouting  in  advance.  He  came 
dashing  back. 

"Julesburg  is  being  attacked,  Lieutenant.  You  can 
see  the  doings  plain,  from  top  o'  next  rise.  The  fort 
acts  as  if  tied  up  hard  and  fast,  but  we  can  make  it  if 
we  push  right  on  'fore  the  red  rascals  head  us  off." 

Fresh  smoke  was  beginning  to  well  sluggishly  into 
the  eastern  sky. 

"Close  up,  men,"  ordered  George's  father.  "Trot — 
march!" 

At  trot  or  fast  walk  to  favor  the  refugees,  the  de- 
tachment pressed  on. 

"Maybe  now  I  get  my  old  humdinger  in  action," 
said  George  to  Terry,  as,  on  their  nimble  Cheyenne 
ponies,  they  rode  in  the  lead,  flanking  the  commanding 
officer  who  luckily  was  George's  father.  "She  hasn't 
had  a  real  good  chance  yet,  but  she's  a  scalp-' em-alive 
gun,  all  right." 


282          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

"This  musket  is  too  blamed  long  for  saddle  use,"  as- 
serted Terry.  "She  sure  makes  a  noise,  though,  when 
she's  turned  loose." 

All  eyes  were  anxiously  searching  the  country  be- 
fore. The  smoke  welled  thicker,  but  not  high.  It  was 
kept  low  by  the  still,  raw  air  of  the  river  bottoms. 

Sol  guided  aside,  to  leave  the  road  and  to  make  a 
detour  around  the  shoulder  of  the  rise.  They  all  fol- 
lowed through  a  shallow  draw  of  the  open  country, 
making  toward  the  right,  and  putting  the  smoke  quar- 
tering ahead  on  their  left. 

"I  hear  'em!"  George  exclaimed.  "Hear  'em  yell- 
ing ;  don't  you  ?" 

"Not  much  shooting,"  remarked  Terry. 

"Naw.  Dad  says  there  aren't  enough  soldiers  in  the 
fort  yet  to  do  anything." 

The  yells  were  faint.  Sol  led  on,  keeping  to  the  low 
ground,  on  a  half  circuit;  gradually  the  smoke  grew 
larger.  The  low  ground  was  about  to  end.  Up  the 
left-hand  slope  they  trotted,  and  thereupon  emerged 
into  full  view  of  Fort  Rankin,  and  of  Julesburg  station 
beyond. 

"Gee  whizz!  Look  at  'em!"  gasped  George,  as 
everybody  stood  in  the  stirrups  to  peer. 

Fort  Rankin  was  almost  opposite.  It  had  been  a 
ranch.  The  Government  had  added  sod  buildings,  ar/i 
a  sod  wall  to  surround  them ;  the  flag  was  floating  froir 
the  flag-pole  in  the  center — and  now  the  boom  of  & 
cannon  sounded  and  a  shell  burst  out  a  way,  toward 
Julesburg. 


HARRY  RESCUES  A  FRIEND          283 

Several  Indians  scouting  there  ducked  and  scam- 
pered, but  the  shell  had  done  no  harm. 

All  Julesburg  station  was  clouded  by  the  smoke  of 
hay  and  burning  logs.  Through  the  smoke  a  perfect 
throng  of  Indians  were  moving  hither-thither,  as  busy 
as  bees:  plundering  the  store  and  stables  and  house, 
throwing  things  about,  capering  and  dancing  drun- 
kenly,  and  driving  ponies,  loaded  with  sacks  of  flour 
and  corn,  in  a  constant  line  across  the  frozen  river. 
Another  line  of  ponies,  traveling  light,  was  returning. 
The  lines  looked  like  lines  of  ants. 

"If  we  ride  straight  for  the  fort  we  can  cut  through 
'fore  the  main  band  sees  us,  'count  of  the  smoke,  Lieu- 
tenant," called  Sol. 

"Form  platoons,  women  in  the  middle,"  ordered 
George's  father.  "Keep  going,  men.  There's  only  a 
scattering  of  the  varmints  near  the  fort." 

"The  stages !     See  the  stages !" 

That  was  the  sudden  cry,  drawing  all  eyes,  as  the 
little  platoons  trotted  across  the  snow  for  the  fort  at 
the  river. 

•Around  the  thinning  edge  of  the  smoke  pall  at  Jules- 
burg  two  stages  were  tearing,  horses  at  gallop,  drivers 
swinging  their  whips,  coaches  bounding  and  swaying 
— making  for  the  fort,  also.  A  squad  of  cavalry  kept 
pace  on  either  side. 

The  Indians  had  seen;  they  were  beginning  to  dart 
from  the  smoke,  and  race  the  coaches,  whooping  and 
plying  guns  and  bows.  The  stages  were  running  the 
gantlet — they  could  not  turn  back,  they  could  not 
reach  the  station,  they  had  to  reach  the  fort. 


284          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

It  was  a  stirring  sight.  Those  drivers  and  pas- 
sengers were  brave.  If  they  got  through,  they  and  the 
Stanton  detachment  would  arrive  at  about  the  same 
time,  from  right-angle  directions. 

The  fort  cannon  boomed ;  a  shell  burst  above  the 
stages;  the  horses  swerved — so  did  the  Indians,  but 
did  not  slacken. 

The  race  took  the  attention  of  the  few  Indians 
nearer  the  fort  from  the  Terry-George-Harry  column. 
They  appeared  to  think  the  race  a  good  joke.  They 
kept  out  of  the  way,  and  jeered  and  laughed ;  by  their 
foolish  antics,  part  of  them  were  drunk. 

"Don't  stop  to  shoot,  men.  Go  on,  go  on,"  ordered 
George's  father. 

But 

"By  the  great  horn  spoon!  I  won't  stand  that!" 
It  was  Harry's  voice,  speaking  abruptly.  Away  he 
sped,  furiously,  at  a  tangent. 

A  single  Indian  had  cantered  up  out  of  a  brushy  lit- 
tle wash,  within  fair  shot  of  the  detachment,  and,  sit- 
ting his  saddle,  was  cavorting  about  and  making  the 
most  insulting  kind  of  gestures.  His  mount  was  a 
yellow  mule. 

"There's  Jenny !"  George  yapped.  "Harry !  Wait !" 
And  then,  with  a  muttered,  "You  darn  fool!"  in  an 
instant  away  scoured  George,  to  the  rescue. 

Terry  did  not  pause  to  consider.  He  whirled  his 
pony,  and  was  away,  too.  He  heard  shouts  of  alarm 
and  command  from  the  soldiers,  .but  he  didn't  take 
time  to  notice  what  they  said. 

The  Indian  started  to  flee.     He  plunged  down  into 


HARRY  RESCUES  A  FRIEND          285 

the  brushy  wash,  and  out  again  on  the  other  side.  Har- 
ry's bay  was  fast — old  Jenny  was  stiff  and  slow,  and 
had  been  hard  used.  George's  "paint"  was  fast — but 
he  could  not  overtake  Harry,  and  Terry  could  not  over- 
take George. 

They  all  strung  out,  and  the  soldiers  dared  not  shoot 
much  for  fear  of  hitting  one  of  them,  and  the  cavalry 
horses  stood  no  show  in  the  chase.  Even  Sol  was  left 
behind. 

Into  the  shallow  gully  plunged  Harry,  on  his  bay, 
and  out ;  he  yelled — "Get  off  that  mule !  Here,  Jenny ! 
Here,  Jenny!" — and  Jenny  actually  half  turned,  and 
balked.  Other  Indians  had  jumped  out  of  the  gully 
to  join  the  fracas.  But  Harry  seemed  wild.  The  In- 
dian on  Jenny  wheeled  full  about — he  was  the  Scar- 
face  !  He  was  the  same  Scar- face  who  had  stolen  the 
Pain  Killer  bottle. 

"Get  off  that  mule!"  yelled  Harry;  he  up  with  his 
carbine  and  fired — at  maybe  fifty  or  sixty  yards. 
George  was  hammering  after,  waving  his  "humdinger" 
pistol,  and  shrieking. 

The  Scar- face  on  Jenny  drew  bow,  and  let  fly;  the 
arrow  streaked  so  swiftly  that  Terry  scarcely  saw  it 
flit  before  Harry  fell  sideways,  and  landed  on  his 
shoulder. 

The  Scar- face  uttered  a  triumphant  whoop,  and  tried 
to  kick  Jenny  into  a  run  for  the  scalp;  but  Jenny  ob- 
jected and  at  the  moment  George's  "humdinger" 
whanged  tremendously. 

Out  of  the  saddle  sprawled  the  Scar-face;  with  a 
rush  George  passed  Harry,  yelling  and  cheering  as  if 


286          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

crazy;  he  shot  right  and  left — and  his  "humdinger** 
clogged  and  quit.  But  that  made  no  difference ;  Terry 
blazed  away  with  his  musket,  and  didn't  hit  anything; 
the  Indians  were  scampering  just  the  same — clearing 
out,  all  streaming  in  the  one  direction.  And  see !  See, 
again!  One  of  the  stages — the  second — had  over- 
turned ;  the  horses  of  the  other  were  trying  to  bolt,  and 
the  passengers  of  the  over-turned  coach  were  running 
to  gain  either  the  first  coach  or  the  fort ! 

They  were  his  mother — yes,  sir;  and  George's 
mother ;  and  Virgie :  running  as  hard  as  they  could, 
with  his  father  and  the  driver  helping,  and  the  squad 
of  soldiers  fighting  off  the  Indians,  and  the  coach  be- 
fore jerked  about  by  the  frantic  team. 

Terry  wratched,  fascinated  by  horror.  Out  of  the 
first  coach  leaped  two  men,  guns  in  hand.  They  sprang 
to  the  lead  team's  bits — were  dragged  about  while  the 
two  women  and  Virgie  were  fairly  thrown  inside;  his 
father  followed,  the  driver  who  was  a-foot  climbed,  at 
a  jump,  to  the  box;  as  the  coach  passed  with  a  rush 
the  two  men  dived  headlong  into  the  open  doors,  the 
doors  were  slammed  and  the  stage  dashed  on  for  the 
fort. 

Cavalry  spurred  out  to  meet  it ;  the  cannon  sent  an- 
other shell;  hurrah,  the  Indians  dropped  back! 
Now 

"Do  you  fellows  want  to  lose  yore  hair  ?" 

Sol  Judy  was  hailing,  as  he  arrived  here  with 
George's  father  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  Colorado  sol- 
diers. 

"If  you  don't,  you'd  better  hustle  back." 


HARRY  RESCUES  A  FRIEND          287 

"I  plugged  him!  I  plugged  that  Scar- face!"  yelled 
George  wildly,  from  where  he  was  sitting  his  pony, 
holding  Jenny  by  the  bridle  thong,  and  looking  down 
at  the  crumpled  Indian.  "Do  you  want  his  scalp?  I 
told  you  my  old  humdinger  was  a  scalp-getter  when  she 
had  a  chance." 

Harry  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  pressing  one  hand 
to  his  thigh,  but  much  alive. 

"Here,  Jenny!  Oh,  Jenny!  Hey!  You  bring  my 
Jenny!" 

"Let  that  dead  Injun  alone  and  get  out,"  ordered 
George's  father.  "Wait  a  minute,  Harry.  Help  him 
up,  some  of  you  men.  We've  no  time  to  lose." 

"Can  you  ride  to  the  fort,  Harry?"  queried  Terry, 
hurrying  to  him.  He  had  an  arrow  sticking  in  his 
hip. 

"Sure  I  can — on  Jenny.  That  arrow  surprised  me  so 
it  knocked  me  off.  Felt  like  a  mule  kick.  Ouch ! 
Easy,  you  fellows.  Here,  Jenny!  Beautiful  Jenny!" 

"Hee-haw !"  Jenny  brayed,  her  nose  outstretched  to 
sniff  at  her  master. 

The  Indians  paid  little  more  attention,  except  to  jeer. 
The  majority  of  them  were  more  intent  upon  plunder 
than  upon  fighting.  Under  cover  of  the  cavalry  car- 
bines and  the  fort  howitzer  the  little  party  arrived, 
at  the  gate,  "all  hunky,"  according  to  Harry.  He  had 
ridden  Jenny ;  Terry  led  the  bay  horse ;  George  contin- 
ued to  explain  about  the  "humdinger,"  which  had 
proved  to  be  a  "scalp-getter." 

"Scalp-saver,  rather,  I'd  call  her,"  corrected  Harry, 
a  bit  crooked  by  reason  of  the  arrow.  "When  I  hit 


288          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

the   ground   I   expected   to   wake   up   with   my   hair 
gone." 

They  entered  the  fort,  and  there  was  a  great  how- 
de-do. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A    BIGGER    JOB    AHEAD 

IT  was  no  wonder  that  Harry  had  been  knocked 
from  his  horse.  The  arrow-point  was  a  frying-pan 
handle,  nine  inches  long.  The  hoop-steel  handle  of  a 
frying-pan  had  been  ground  sharp,  at  the  small  end 
and  on  the  edges,  and  fastened  to  a  shaft  almost  three 
feet  long! 

The  whole  contraption  was  quite  the  largest,  heaviest 
arrow  ever  seen  by  anybody  at  the  post,  and  must  have 
been  driven  by  a  powerful  bow. 

The  point  had  doubled  in  Harry's  thigh-bone.  To 
extract  the  arrow  was  a  problem.  The  post  had  no 
surgeon.  Finally  they  took  the  blacksmith's  huge  pin- 
cers, Harry  stretched  out,  and  held  fast,  and  by  stand- 
ing on  him  and  tugging  with  the  pincers  they  wrenched 
the  arrow  free. 

That  was  not  a  pleasant  operation,  but  after  it  was 
over  Harry  felt  "as  comfortable  as  possible."  Besides, 
he  had  Jenny  back  again. 

The  coach  bore  the  scars  from  twenty  bullets  and 
arrows.  However,  nobody  in  either  coach  had  been 
hurt.  Now,  with  all  safe  in  Fort  Rankin,  there  was 

289 


290          QN  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

little  to  do  except  watch  the  Indians  and  wait  for  them 
to  go,  or  for  reinforcements. 

The  Indians  numbered  at  least  1,000.  They  ap- 
peared to  be  having  a  fine  time,  sacking  Julesburg,  and 
celebrating  with  fire  and  dance  and  feast.  They  dared 
the  soldiers  to  come  out;  once  in  a  while  squads  did 
go  out,  and  after  a  skirmish  or  two,  came  back. 

The  Indians  stayed  all  that  night,  until  they  had 
grown  tired  of  fooling.  In  the  morning  they  began 
to  leave  by  bunches;  crossing  the  river  and  trailing 
north.  Julesburg  station  had  been  destroyed,  but  any- 
body that  wished  was  at  liberty  to  go  down  and  look 
at  what  remained. 

One  of  the  two  men  who  had  been  traveling  in  that 
first  coach  was  Mr.  Andrew  Hughes,  Overland  assist- 
ant general  agent  from  Atchison.  He  was  on  his  way 
through  "special/'  with  one  companion  and  the  driver, 
to  open  the  road,  if  possible,  in  spite  of  the  Indians. 
They  had  caught  the  Richards-Stanton  coach  at  Kear- 
ney— "and  what  one  coach  could  do,  two  could  do,  so 
we  joined  company,"-  explained  Terry's  father.  "And 
when  we  sighted  the  trouble  at  Julesburg,  the  fort  was 
the  only  point  within  reach  and  we  simply  had  to  break 
to  it  with  the  help  of  the  escort  that  we  picked  up  a  few 
miles  back." 

"I  wasn't  afraid  till  we  got  tipped  over,"  Virgie 
declared.  "Then  I  thought  I'd  have  to  be  a  squaw, 
sure.  I  sha'n't  ride  any  more  in  these  old  stage- 
coaches. I'm  going  to  wait  and  ride  on  the  steam 
train." 

"Where?" 


A  BIGGER  JOB  AHEAD  291 

"Across  the  plains." 

"How  soon?"  George  bantered. 

"Well,  just  as  soon  as  our  father  and  Terry's  father 
build  the  road  for  them." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Terry,  reminded.  "Did  you  get 
the  job,  Dad?" 

"I  have  the  promise.  I  saw  the  general.  He's  en- 
gaged to  be  the  chief  engineer,  when  the  war  closes. 
I  can  go  out  with  him  on  the  construction  work;  and 
so  can  Mr.  Stanton  if  he  wants  to.  They'll  need  men, 
especially  former  soldiers." 

"We'll  go,  too,  then !"  cheered  George.  "Won't  we, 
Terry  ?  Help  build  a  railroad !  Sure  thing !  How 
long  will  it  take,  Mr.  Richards?" 

"Some  folks  say  ten  years,  but  General  Dodge  says 
he'll  do  it  in  three,  after  he's  once  commenced  the 
grading." 

"How  far,  though?" 

"From  the  Missouri  River  across  the  mountains  into 
Utah;  maybe  farther,  until  we  meet  the  Central  Pa- 
cific, building  east  out  of  California." 

"Gee  whillikens !"  And  Terry  walked  on  his  hands. 
He  flopped  right  end  up  again.  "We'll  get  Harry  on 
the  payroll,  too.  What'll  we  do,  I  wonder.  Drive  a 
team  or  drive  spikes  ?" 

"No,  sir!  We'll  ride  our  ponies  and  chase  Injuns 
and  hunt  buffalo  for  meat,"  George  proclaimed. 

"Or  run  an  engine!" 

"Shucks !  I  haven't  seen  an  engine  for  so  long  I  for- 
get what  it  looks  like,"  confessed  George. 

"You'll  have  plenty  of  time  for  choosing  your  par- 


292          ON  THE  OVERLAND  STAGE 

ticular  jobs,"  replied  Terry's  father.  "And  then  the 
Union  Pacific  Company  may  choose  them  for  you — if 
there's  a  call  for  green  hands  at  all !  I'd  advise  you  to 
practise  swinging  a  pick." 

This  did  not  sound  as  attractive  as  hunting  buffalo 
or  running  an  engine. 

At  any  rate,  nothing  could  be  done  here  at  Fort 
Rankin  toward  building  a  Union  Pacific  railroad.  The 
great  Holladay  Overland  Stage  Line,  with  its  250  Con- 
cord coaches  and  6,000  horses  and  mules,  and  its  3,000 
miles  of  main  line  and  branch  lines,  was  more  impor- 
tant at  present.  It  had  to  be  kept  open,  or  there  would 
be  no  travel.  The  telegraph  wires  and  poles  were  down, 
too,  and  the  East  could  not  hear  from  the  West,  nor 
the  West  from  the  East. 

Having  wrought  their  worst,  in  this  last  big  raid, 
the  Indians  were  retiring  north.  The  soldiers  and  the 
stage  people  and  the  telegraph  people  worked  hard  for 
two  weeks,  patching  the  gap  west  of  Julesburg. 

It  was  a  tough  trip  from  Rankin  to  Denver,  with  one 
of  the  first  stages  out :  the  stations  few,  yet,  and  the 
meals  even  farther  between,  and  Harry's  hip  paining 
him  like  sixty,  and  Indian  signs — ruins,  and  signals, 
and  skulking  figures — setting  one's  heart  to  beating. 
In  fact,  as  Harry  admitted  from  the  coach,  such  rid- 
ing made  a  fellow  nervous.  Shep's  tail  drooped  most 
of  the  way,  as  he  loped  and  trotted — by  aid  of  an  oc- 
casional lift  keeping  up  with  the  plodding  coach,  and 
the  escort  including  the  two  Cheyenne  ponies  and  their 
riders. 

Harry's  wound  from  the  frying-pan  handle  did  not 


A  BIGGER  JOB  AHEAD  293 

heal  worth  a  cent.  So,  although  the  Overland  Stage 
Line  soon  was  doing  business  as  usual,  the  late  Beaver 
Creek  hands  decided  to  "lay  off"  and  stay  at  home  for 
a  spell. 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  very  glad  to,"  prompted 
Terry's  and  George's  mothers. 

"We  stick  together.  It  wouldn't  be  any  fun  with- 
out Harry,"  George  asserted. 

"No.  And  we've  got  something  better  ahead  of  us, 
when  he  gets  well,"  agreed  Terry. 

"Jenny's  satisfied,  if  you-all  are,"  said  Harry.  "She 
had  a  harder  time  than  anybody,  trying  to  live  red.  I 
guess  I'll  have  to  let  her  live  yellow-white — a  cream 
life — again,  for  a  change,  till  we're  due  to  tackle  the 
iron  trail." 


THE   END 


THE  "SILVER   FOX  FARM"   SERIES 


BY   JAMES    OTIS 

THE  WIRELESS  STATION  AT  SILVER  FOX  FARM. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland.     8vo. 

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miles  off  the  Maine  coast. 

THE  AEROPLANE  AT  SILVER  FOX  FARM. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland.    8vo. 

An  absorbing  story  of  the  building  and  working  of  an  aero- 
plane on  Barren  Island. 

BUILDING  AN  AIRSHIP  AT  SILVER  FOX  FARM. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland.    8vo. 

Encouraged  by  their  success  in.  aeroplane-building,  the  boys 
of  Silver  Fox  Farm  go  in  for  a  full-fledged  airship. 

AIRSHIP  CRUISING  FROM  SILVER  FOX  FARM. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland.     8vo. 

A  further  account  of  the  marvels  performed  by  the  Silver 
Fox  Farmers,  including  the  story  of  the  thrilling  rescue  of  a 
shipwrecked  yachting  party  by  means  of  their  great  air-cruiser. 

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Dick  in  the  Desert  Our  Uncle  the  Major 

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CROWELL'S  SCOUT  BOOKS 

By  JAMES   OTIS 
BOY  SCOUTS  IN   THE  MAINE  WOODS 

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BOY   SCOUTS  IN  A  LUMBER  CAMP 

How  two  patrols  carried  through  to  success  a  big  lum- 
bering contract     Illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland. 


By   PERCY   K.    FITZHUGH 
ALONG   THE   MOHAWK   TRAIL; 

OR,  BOY   SCOUTS   ON   LAKE   CHAMPLAIH 

The  lively  doings  of  real  Boy  Scouts  among  historic 
scenes.  Illustrated  by  Remington  Schuyler. 

FOR  UNCLE  SAM,  BOSS; 

OR,    BOY    SCOUTS    AT    PANAMA 

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Mohawk  Trail"  render  important  services  to  the  United 
States  in  connection  with  the  great  Canal.  4  illustrations. 

IN  THE  PATH  OF  LA  SALLE; 

OR,  BOY  SCOUTS  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

The  interesting  experiences  of  the  main  characters  in 
"For  Uncle  Sam,  Boss,"  while  boating  down  the  Father  of 
Waters.  Their  varied  adventures  finally  carry  them  as 
far  as  Mexico.  Illustrated  by  Fisk. 


By   EDWIN   L.   SABIN 
PLUCK  ON  THE  LONG  TRAIL; 

OR,  BOY  SCOUTS  IN  THE)  ROCKIES 

A  stirring  narrative  of  packing,  trailing,  and  camping: 
in  the  West.  Illustrated  by  Clarence  Rowe. 

Each  Volume,  12mo,  cloth, 

A  fine  series  of  wholesome,  realistic,  and  entertaining 
stories  for  boys  by  juvenile  writers  of  recognized  stand- 
ing, who  have  a  thorough  knowledge  of  Boy  Scouts  and 
of  real  scouting  in  the  sections  of  the  country  in  which 
the  scenes  of  their  books  are  laid. 


THOMAS  Y.    CROWELL  COMPANY 
NEW   YORK 


THE    BAR    B    SERIES 


By   EDWIN    L.    SABIN 
BAR  B   BOYS; 

OR,   THE   YOUNG   COW-PUNCHERS 

A  picturesque  story  of  Western  ranch  life.  Illustrated 
by  Charles  Copeland. 

RANGE   AND  TRAIL 

The  Bar  B  Boys  in  winter  and  on  the  long  trail  from 
New  Mexico  to  the  home  ranch.  Illustrated  by  Clarence 
Rowe. 

CIRCLE  K; 

OR,  FIGHTING  FOR  THE  FLOCK 

The  ranchmen  are  here  engaged  in  the  sheep  industry, 
and  the  story  has  the  same  real  Western  flavor.  Illus- 
trated by  Clarence  Rowe. 

OLD  FOUR-TOES; 

OR,  HUNTERS   OF  THE  PEAKS 

The  two  boys,  Phil  and  Chet,  Grizzly  Dan  and  others, 
figure  in  this  fascinating  account  of  hunting,  trapping, 
and  Indian  encounters.  Illustrated  by  Clarence  Rowe. 

TREASURE   MOUNTAIN; 

OR,   THE   YOUNG   PROSPECTORS 

Tells  of  the  locating  of  an  old  gold  mine  near  the  top 
of  a  mountain  peak.  One  of  the  liveliest  books  in  the 
series.  Illustrated  by  Clarence  Rowe. 

SCARFACE  RANCH; 

OR,  THE  YOUNG  HOMESTEADERS 

Two  young  heroes  here  take  up  some  government  land 
and  engage  most  successfully  in  cattle  raising  on  their 
own  account.  Illustrated  by  Clarence  Rowe. 

Each    Volume    Svo,    cloth, 

Also  by  MR.   SABIN 
PLUCK  ON   THE   LONG   TRAIL; 

OR,  BOY  SCOUTS  IN  THE  ROCKIES 

A  stirring  narrative  of  packing,  trailing,  and  camping 
in  the  West.  Illustrated  by  Clarence  Rowe.  12mo.  cloth. 


THOMAS  Y.    CROWELL   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


CIVIL  WAR  STORIES  BY  WARREN  LEE  GOSS 

IN  THE  NAVY,  (7th  Thousand)  Illustrated,  399  Pages,  A  Story 
of  naval  adventures  during  the  Civil  war. 
ltelhe  Marine  Journal''''  says  of  it:  "The  author,  takes  as  usual 
for  his  fiction,  a  foundation  of  reality,  and  therefore  the  story  reads 
like  a  transcript  of  real  life.  There  are  many  dramatic  scenes, 
such  as  the  battle  between  the  Monitor  and  the  Merrimac,  and  the 
reader  follows  the  adventures  of  the  two  heroes  with  a  keen  interest 
that  must  make  the  story  popular  especially  at  the  present  time." 

TOM  CLIFTON,  A  story  of  adventures  in  Grant  and  Sher- 
man's armies.  (13th  Thousand)  Illustrated.  480  pages.  I2mo. 
cloth, 

"The  Detroit  Free  Press"**  says  of  it,  '  'The  book  is  the  very  epitome 
of  what  the  young  soldiers,  who  helped  to  save  the  Union,  felt, 
endured  and  enjoyed.  It  is  wholesome,  stimulating  to  patriotism 
and  manhood,  noble  in  tone,  unstained  by  any  hint  of  sectionalism, 
full  of  good  feeling  j  the  work  of  a  hero  who  himself  did  what  he 
saw  and  relates." 

JACK  ALDEN:  Adventures  in  the  Virginia  Campaigns. 
1861-65.  (12th  Thousand)  Illustrated,  404  pages. 
"The  Nenv  York  Nation''''  says  of  it:  "It  is  an  unusually  interesting 
story.  Its  pictures  of  scenes  and  incidents  of  army  life,  from  the 
march  of  the  6th  Massachusetts  regiment  through  Baltimore  to  the 
surrender  at  Appomattox,  are  among  the  best  that  we  can  re- 
member to  have  read." 

JED.  A  boys  adventures  in  the  army.(  28th  Thousand)  Illu- 
strated, 402  pages.  12mo.  Cloth, 

ltThe  Boston  Beacon''"'  among  other  complimentary  remarks  about 
this  book  says:  "Of  all  the  many  stories  of  the  Civil  War  that 
have  been  published — and  their  name  is  legion — it  is  not  possible 
to  mention  one  which  for  sturdy  realism,  intensity  of  interest,  and 
range  of  narrative,  can  compare  with  Jed." 

A  LIFE  OF  GRANT  FOR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS.  Illustrated. 
12mo.  Cloth, 

"The  Christian  Advocate""  (Cincinnati)  says  of  it:  "One  of  the 
best  lives  of  U.  S.  Grant  that  we  have  seen — clear,  circumstantial, 
but  without  undue  and  fulsome  praise.  The  chapters  telling  of 
the  clouds  of  misfortune  and  suffering  over  the  close  of  his  life  are 
pathetic  in  the  extreme." 

THE  BOYS  LIFE  OF  GENERAL  SHERIDAN.  Illustrated 
12mo.  cloth, 

The  "Living  Churh  (Milwaukee)  says  of  it:  "The  story  of  the 
dashing  officer  in  his  war  career  and  also  afterwards  -  in  his 
campaigns  among  the  Indians,  form  a  thrilling  story  of  American 
leadership.  The  book  contains  a  thorough  review  in  thrilling  language 
of  the  various  campaigns  in  which  Sheridan  made  his  mark. ' ' 

Order  from  your  bookseller.  Send  for  Catalogue 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL   COMPANY,    NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


FEB    3    1941 


LD  21-100m-7,'39(402s) 


Y.C  95729 


M61172 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


